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CONVENT LIFE OF GEORGE SAND. 


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TO 


GEORGE SAND: 
A Recognition. 


True genius, but true woman! dost deny 

Thy woman’s nature with a manly scorn, 

And break away the gauds and armlets worn 
By weaker women in captivity ? 

Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry 

Is sobbed in by a woman’s voice forlorn : 

Thy woman’s hair, my sister, all unshorn, 
Floats back dishevelled strength in agony, 
Disproving thy man’s name; and while before 
The world thou burnest in a poet-fire, 

We see thy woman-heart beat evermore 
Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and highér, 
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore, 
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire. 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 





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FROM 


A PAINTING BY 





COUTURE 


CONVENT LIPE 


OF 


GEORGE. SAN) 


(FROM “L’HISTOIRE DE MA VIE”) 


Translated by 


MARIA ELLERY MacKAYE 


BOSTON 
ROBERTS BROTHERS 


1893 


Copyright, 1898, 
By ROBERTs BROTHERS. 


Gniversity Press : 


JoHN WILSON AND Son, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 


PRE-PACE. 





‘HIS little book has been taken from an 
episode in the published Memoirs of 
Madame Dudevant, whose maiden name was 
Aurore Dupin,—that “large-brained woman 
and large-hearted man, self-called George 
Sand.” The heroine of these pages, the 
convent schoolgirl, had royal blood in her 
veins, descended, as she was, from Frederic 
Augustus, Elector of Saxony, and King of 
Poland, — her great grandfather, Maurice 
de Saxe, the famous captain of the war of 
the Austrian succession, being the illegiti- 
mate son of Frederic Augustus and of the 
once celebrated coquette, Aurore de Kénigs- 
mark, that unprincipled beauty of whom 
Charles XII. of Sweden owned himself 
afraid. But she says in her Memoirs: 


2076752 


vi | Preface. 


“If my father was the great-grandson of 
Augustus II., King of Poland, and if in 
this indisputable though illicit fashion I 
am nearly related to Charles X. and 
Louis XVIII., it is no less certain that 
plebeian blood flows in my veins just as 
directly; and on this side, moreover, there 
is no bar sinister.’ In fact her mother, 
buffeted about in Revolutionary times, was 
a poor girl, daughter of a Parisian bird- 
fancier; and from this ancestor George 
Sand always claimed to have inherited her 
love ‘of natural history. 

The other grandfather was the step-son 
of the well-known Madame Dupin, the hos- 
pitable and enlightened chatelaine of Che- 
nonceaux in its palmiest days. This 
gentleman, M. Dupin de Francueil, had 
won for his wife, after a resolute court- 
ship of two or three years, Aurore de 
Saxe, the widow of Count van Horn, who 
had been killed in a duel. This lady, 
educated at Saint-Cyr, and afterward pen- 
sioned by the daughter of Marie Antoi- 


Preface. Vii 


nette, is the grandmother of “Convent 
Life.” _ During the Reign of Terror, after 
the death of her husband,.she fell under 
suspicion, was forcibly separated from her 
only child, Maurice, then fifteen years old, 
and imprisoned in the very convent of the 
Fossés St. Victor, where she afterward sent 
her little granddaughter to school. The boy 
was allowed to visit his mother for a few 
minutes at a time, at long intervals. The 
buildings were used as a comnion house of 
detention for women; and here, strangely 
enough, Maurice and Madame Dupin may 
have encountered the young girl destined 
later to play such an important part in the 
lives of both mother and son; for Aurore’s 
mother, Victoire Delaborde, daughter of 
the old Parisian bird-fancier, had also been 
arrested on the accusation of singing 
royalist songs, of which the manuscript 
was found in her possession, and was im- 
prisoned for weeks in the same place and | 
at the same time with Madame Dupin. 
The marriage of her son, while he was 


Vill Preface. 


still a young officer in Napoleon’s army, was 
a great disappointment and source of morti- 
fication to Madame Dupin, who never be- 
came reconciled to the mésallance; and 
after her father’s early death Aurore’s child- 
hood was imbittered by the virulent dis- 
putes between her mother and grandmother 
concerning her guardianship and educa- 
tion. She was a bone of contention, over 
which they were constantly fighting. That 
these two women should ever agree about 
anything was so remarkable that no doubt 
the little girl was reconciled to the idea of 
the convent school when she found that 
Madame Dupin’s plan of sending her away 
from home was not opposed by her mother, 
who accepted it, perhaps, as a compromise ; 
so that after all it is not strange if the life 
described in these pages seemed like a 
haven of rest to the loyal daughter and 
affectionate grandchild. 

It is interesting to study the evolution 
of the idyllic novelist and passionate re- 
former; to note the characteristic traits of 


Preface. ix 


M. Caro’s “ mystic pupil of the English con- 
vent, the humble adorer of Sister Alicia, 
the dreamy, adventurous country-girl,” Au- 
rore Dupin, fresh from the moors and 
woods of Berri,—and then to recognize 
the same peculiarities in George Sand, the 
ageressive, uncompromising celebrity of 
1831; the apostle of social and domestic 
liberty, arraigning the legalized tyranny of 
the husband while illogically clinging to 
marriage; keenly alive to her own suffer- 
ing, but ready and eager to relieve that of 
others ; open perhaps, even at that late day, 
to the charge of sometimes prosecuting the 
old “search for the victim,” firm believer 
as she was in the solidarity of her sex in 
the present, past, and future. 

After the effervescence of her eccentric 
Bohemian career, she led for many years a 
quiet, systematic life at her old home, No- 
hant, indefatigably absorbed in her writing, 
her household, and in private theatricals, 
and exercising an unfailing hospitality to 
literary friends. An unhappy marriage, 


x Preface. 


followed by a legal separation, had left 
her with two children, — Maurice and 
Solange, — whose education the tribunals 
had confided to her care. -. Late in life, 
like Victor Hugo, she took especial delight 
in her grandchildren, for whom she wrote 
“Les Contes d’une Grand’méré.” 

George Sand’s earlier works were pas- 
sionate protests against arbitrary social bar- 
riers and separations, — against caste, and 
the prevailing ideas concerning love and 
marriage. The idealized sensuality of these 
novels, however, is redeemed by her subse- 
quent stories,— such idyls as “La Mare 
au Diable,” “ Frangois le Champi,” and 
“La Petite Fadette.” It has been well re- 
marked that in the “ Marquis de Villemer,” 
afterward successfully dramatized, she suc- 
ceeds admirably in portraying “high life.” 
In’ fact, the most revolutionary ideas are 
everywhere clothed by her in expressions 
of unstudied and habitual elegance. An 
ardent patriot, her ready pen was always 
at the service of great ideas, — in 1848, and 


Preface. xl 


later in 1871; but political compromises 
were foreign to her nature. 

George Sand says of herself: “ No doubt 
I have serious faults; but, like most per- 
sons, I am not conscious of them. If we 
do wrong, it is almost always, no doubt, 
because we are not aware of it. If we knew 
better, we should act differently.” 

Thus the woman of more than seventy 
years absolved herself in nearly the same 
words she had used in speaking to her 
Jesuit confessor so many years before in 
the English convent of the Rue Fossés de 
St. Victor. 


CAMBRIDGE, Oct. I, 1892. 














CONVENT: LIBE 


OF 


GEOR Gb SAN: 


I. 


A hae English Augustinian Convent Rue 
des Fossés St. Victor is one of the 
three or four British communities estab- 
lished in Paris in the time of Cromwell; 
the only one left unharmed by the French 
Revolution. According to tradition, Hen- 
rietta of France, daughter of Henry IV. 


and wife of the unfortunate Charles I. of © 


England, often came with her son, James 


II., to pray in the convent chapel, where. 


she touched for the king’s evil the crowds 
of poor people who flocked about her. All 
the nuns were English, Scotch, or Irish, as 
well as two‘thirds at least of the boarders 
and lodgers and some of the officiating 


priests. At certain hours no French was 
I 


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2 Convent Life of George Sand. 


allowed to be spoken, not even during rec- 
reation, and the nuns hardly ever con- 
versed with us except in their native tongue. 
They also kept up the national tradition 
of taking tea three times a day, and the 
favored pupils were sometimes invited to 
participate. 

The cloisters as well as the church were 
paved with long flagstones, covering the 
graves of revered English Catholics or nota- 
ble persons who had died in exile, and who 
had been interred by especial favor in this 
inviolable sanctuary. All around, on mural 
tablets as well as on the tombstones, were 
English epitaphs and verses from Scripture. 
In the Superior’s apartments, her bedroom 
and private parlor, were hung life-size por- 
traits of English prelates and princes; and 
a conspicuous place was accorded to the 
" fair and frail Mary Queen of Scots, regarded 
as a saint by these pious nuns. 

Everything, in fact, was English in the 
house, past as well as present; and when 
you had once crossed the threshold, it 
seemed as if you were on the other side of 
the Channel. For a little country girl like 
me the bewilderment of the first impres- 
sion was overwhelming. 


; 


Convent Life of George Sand. 3 


We were received on our arrival by the 
Superior, Madame Canning, a middle-aged 
woman, handsome and majestic, whose intel- 
lectual sprightliness was in strong contrast 
with her physical stolidity. Complacent 
and well-bred, she spoke French with ease, 
though with a strong English accent, and 
her expression indicated more resolution and 
keen sense of humor than any tendency to 
- devout contemplation. 

On introducing me, my grandmother 
showed a little pardonable vanity, saying 
that I was very far advanced for my age, 
and that it would be a pity to put me in 
one of the lower classes. It seemed, how- 
ever, that there were only two divisions, 
and the younger one, containing about 
thirty children, was evidently my proper 
place. On account of extensive though 
desultory reading and the consequent de- 
velopment of my mind, they might have 
created a third class for me, perhaps, with ° 
two or three others; but I was entirely 
unaccustomed to methodical study, and 
moreover did not know one word of Eng- 
lish. I had read with intelligent interest 
a certain amount of philosophy and a great 
deal of history; but I was very ignorant, 


4 Convent Life of George Sand. 


or at all events very uncertain, about the 
order of events, and while I could have 
discussed all sorts of topics with more acute- 
ness and discrimination perhaps than some 
of the teachers, the merest tyro could have 
puzzled me in regard to facts and their 
sequence, and I could not have passed a 
tolerable examination on any subject what- 
ever. I was perfectly conscious of this 
incapacity, and it was a great relief to 
hear the Superior say that since I had 
never been confirmed I must go with the 
girls of my own age. 

It was the hour of recess. Madame Can- 
ning sent for one of the pupils, gave me into 
her keeping with many injunctions, and 
sent us both to the garden, where I began at ~ 
once to run about, looking at everything 
and everybody, and prying into every nook 
and corner of the playground like a bird 
making up her mind where she shall build 
her nest. I was not in the least intimidated, 
though the other girls looked at me a great 
deal. I saw at once that their manners 
were superior to.my own, and I watched 
with interest the older pupils who were not 
playing, but walked up and down, arm in 
arm, talking with one another. My guide 


Convent Life of George Sand. 5 


told me the names of several of these girls, 
who belonged, it seemed, to very aristo- 
cratic families; but that did not impress me 
at all. I was curious rather to know where 
all the paths led to, and the names of the 
chapels and arbors that adorned the gar- 
den, and was delighted to learn that I could 
have a corner plot myself for a garden, cul- 
tivating it as I liked. This amusement did © 
not seem very popular; for there was plenty 
of land from which to choose. But a game 
of “tag” had been organized ; I was putina 
“camp,” and though I knew nothing of the 
rules of the game, I did know how to run. 
When my grandmother came out in the 
garden with the Superior and the house- 
keeper, she seemed very much pleased to 
find that I was already so much at home; 
but she was about to go, and led me away 
into the cloisters to say good-by. It was 
hard for her, and the excellent woman burst 
into tears when she kissed me. I was really 
grieved, but thought it right to be brave, 
and did not shed atear. Then my grand- 
mother pushed me away and looked at me 
steadily, exclaiming, “ You unfeeling child! 
you care nothing at all about leaving me, 
that is very plain;” and she turned away, 


6 Convent Life of George Sand. 


hiding her face with her hands. I remained 
standing as if petrified. I thought that I 
was behaving well, and that since she had 
brought me there to stay, she ought to be 
pleased with my courage and resignation. 
Turning round, I saw near me the house- 
keeper, Mother Alippe, a kind-hearted little 
round ball of a woman. 

“What is the matter, my dear; what 
has happened?” she asked in her English 
accent. “ Did you say something that dis- 
pleased your grandmother?” 

“I did not say a word,’ I answered; “I 
thought I ought not to.” 

-“ Tell me,” she went on, taking my hand, 
“are you sorry to come here?” 

Her unaffected kindness unsealed my 
lips, and I said: “ Yes, madam, I cannot help 
being sorry and lonesome among strangers, 
where no one loves me, and when I am so 
far away from my relations, who are very 
fond of me; but I would not cry before 
my grandmother, when she has brought 
me here, and wants me to stay. Was it 
wrong?” 

“ No, my child,” answered Mother Alippe; 
“but perhaps your grandmother did not 
understand. Go and play now. Be a good 


Convent Life of George Sand. 7 


girl, and everybody will love you here, just 
as they do at home; only, when you see 
your grandmother the next time, do not for- 
get to tell her that the reason you did not 
show any grief at parting was because you 
did not want to make her feel badly.” 

I went back to play, but my heart was full. 
I thought then, and think now, that my 
grandmother was very unjust. She waited 
a whole week before she came again, though 
she had promised to see me in two or three 
days. 

We were cloistered in the strictest sense 
of the word; for we only went out twice a 
month, and stayed all night only once a 
year. There were vacations, but I never 
had any, my grandmother thinking it best 
not to interrupt my studies, so as to abridge 
my stay, and it happened twice that I passed 
a whole year behind the grating. 

We went to mass in our own chapel, and 
received visits in the parlor, where we also 
took our private lessons, the professor on 
one side of the-grating and we on the other. 
All the windows that opened on the street 
were not only grated, but filled in with 
white cloth. It certainly was a prison; 
though with an extensive garden and plenty 


a 


8 Convent Life of George Sand. 


of companions; but I must say that I was 
not oppressed by the feeling of captivity, and 
that the precautions to keep us in, and pre- 
vent us from looking out, only amused me. 
These precautions were certainly remind- 
ers of the loss of liberty. The streets into 
which our windows looked were very dirty 
and uninviting, and not one of us could 
have been induced to go out alone at home; 
but every girl, without exception, took in- 
stant advantage of any accident by which the 
convent door was left ajar and unguarded 
for a moment, and seized every opportu- 
nity to peer through the splits in the white 
window-shades. To outwit the porter or 
portress, to run down two or three steps of 
the flight leading into the yard, to see a 
hack go by, was the summit of ambition for 
forty or fifty gay girls, who the next day, 
perhaps, might walk freely about Paris in 
company with their parents, without over- 
estimating the privilege, so long as it was 
not forbidden. 

My stay in the convent was marked by 
three distinct phases, each in turn a source 
of. anxiety to my grandmother, who ought 
to have known what to expect when she 
placed me there. ‘The first year 1 was more 


( 


Convent Life of George Sand. . 9 


than ever an “enfant terrible,” because a 
sort of despair, or rather desperation, con- 
stantly prompted me to deaden my pain and 
drown my homesickness in a sort of intox- 
ication. The second year I suddenly be- 
came an ardent devotee, and the third was 
passed in a state of calm exaltation, of firm 
and cheerful piety. The first year I hada 
great many scolding letters from my grand- 
mother; the next she seemed far more 
troubled by my devotion than she had ever 
been by my mischief; and the third, she was 
pleased, but expressed satisfaction alloyed 
by slight uneasiness. 

Such in general was the result of my 
cloister life; but since a more detailed ac- 
count may interest those who are curious 
in regard to the good and bad influences 
of convent education, I shall relate my own 
experience in the most unvarnished way, 
with perfect sincerity, I trust, of thought 
and feeling. : : 

But it may be well to describe first the 
convent itself; for the places we inhabit 
exert upon our characters an influence al- 
most inseparable from the reminiscences 
themselves. 


+ 


10 ©=—6- Convent Life of George Sand. 


II. 


HE English Augustinian Convent was 

a conglomeration of courts, buildings, 

and gardens, a sort of village instead of one 
house ; but there was nothing in its aspect 
to interest an architect or an antiquary. 
During the two hundred years and more 
of its existence there had been so many 
changes,. additions, and adaptations, that 
it was hard to detect the original design. — 
This very heterogeneousness, however, be- 
came its principal characteristic. It was 
mysterious and labyrinthine, —in all its ug- 
liness not devoid of a certain poetic charm 
with which these recluses knew how to in- 
vest the most ordinary objects. It was a 
whole month before I could find my way 
about alone, and after all our exploring © 
expeditions I never knew all the winding 
passages or visited all the recesses of the 
~ place. The front on the street was wholly 
uninteresting; a great, bare, ugly building, 
with a low, arched doorway that gave access 


Convent Life of George Sand. 11 


to a wide, steep flight of steps. After 
mounting these stone stairs (there were 
seventeen if I remember rightly), you found 
yourself in a court paved with flagstones 
and surrounded by low buildings with blank 
walls, —on one side the church, on the 
other the cloisters. Adjoining these last 
was the lodge of a porter, whose duty it 
was to open and shut the entrance of a 
vaulted passage communicating with the in- 
terior of the convent by a turning-box for 
parcels, and also opening into four grated 
parlors where visitors were received, — the 
first used by the nuns themselves, the sec- 
ond for lessons, and the third, the largest, 
reserved for the friends and relations of 
the pupils. In the fourth the Superior 
received those who asked for her; but 
she had in another part of the building 
a still larger grated parlor where she en- 
tertained ecclesiastical visitors or members 
of her own family, as well as those who 
had any important or confidential commu- 
nication to make. No other part of the 
convent was ever seen by men, or even by 
women, unless they were especially favored ; 
but let us penetrate into the carefully 
guarded interior. : 


' 


12 Convent Life of George Sand. 


The door in the court, furnished with a 
wicket, ground on its hinges as you passed 
‘through to the echoing cloisters,— a quad- 
rangular gallery paved with sepulchral stones 
adorned with death’s-heads and crossbones 
and inscribed with “ Requiescat in pace.” 
Through the arches you looked out on the 
courtyard with its beautiful flower-beds and 
the traditional well. At one end of the 
cloisters was the entrance to the church 
with its adjoining garden, and at the other 
the new building containing on the ground 
floor the large schoolroom for the older 
girls, on the ez¢reso/ the nuns’ workroom, 
on the first and second story the cells of 
the sisters, and on the third the dormitory 


for the younger children. The third side» 


of the cloister was that of the kitchens and 


offices, and led to the cellars as well as to — 


a separate building containing the school- 
rooms of the lower classes. Farther on 
were several other constructions, very rui- 
nous, a perfect maze of dark passages, spiral 
staircases, little detached buildings, con- 
nected with one another by flights of worn 
and uneven steps, or by boards thrown 
across. These were probably parts of the 


original convent, and the attempts to con-— 


Y 


Convent Life of George Sand. 13 


nect them’ with the whole showed either 
lack of means in revolutionary times, or 
great stupidity in the builders. There were 
galleries that led nowhere, and passages 
that you could hardly squeeze through to 
strange edifices, that reminded you of those 
in bad dreams that shut down upon you 
and crush you between the walls that come 
slowly together. This part of the convent 
baffles description, and the uses to which 
these buildings were put were as various 
as their grouping. Here lived a boarder, 
next door a privileged pupil; farther on was 
a room for piano practice, then a linen 
storehouse, adjoining vacant apartments oc- 
casionally occupied by friends from across 
the Channel; with here and there a nook 
packed with the miscellaneous objects that 
old women, especially nuns, delight in 
hoarding, such as dilapidated church or- 
naments, strings of onions, broken chairs, 
empty bottles, old garments, etc. The 
garden was vast, shaded by superb horse- 
chestnut-trees. On one side a high wall 
separated us from the Scotch convent, and | 
on the other stood a long row of small 
houses tenanted by pious ladies retired 
from the world. Besides this garden, there © 


14 Convent Life of George Sand. 


was also, in front of the new building, a 
double quadrangle planted with vegetables, 
also bordered by houses, all occupied by 
old matrons or by boarding-pupils who had 
quarters to themselves. Here was the laun- 
dry, and a door that opened on the public 
street, only unlocked for the lodgers in the 
rows of houses, who had also a parlor for 
their own visits. There was yet another 
garden, the largest of all, the Garden of 
the Hesperides, that we were never allowed 
to enter. Here vegetables were cultivated 
for the use of the community; and it was 
also full of flowers and fine fruit. We 
could see through the high open-work iron 
gate bunches of golden grapes, superb 
melons, and beautiful variegated carnations; 
but you could only get in at the risk of 
breaking your neck. -Some of us, however, 
ventured to climb over occasionally. Still 
beyond was the garden of another sister- 
hood, I have not mentioned the church, or 
the cemetery either, the only parts of the 
convent considered remarkable; but I shall 
describe them in the course of my recital. 
In this way a hundred and twenty or 
thirty nuns, lay sisters, pupils, lodgers, re- 
cluses, secular teachers, and servant-maids, 


Convent Life of George Sand. oe g 


were lodged in the most eccentric man- 
ner, often inconveniently,—in one place 
crowded together, in another widely scat- 
tered over a space where a dozen families 
could have lived comfortably, each with a 
little land to cultivate. The different rooms 
we used were so far apart that fully a quarter 
_of our time was spent running to and fro. 

I have forgotten to speak of the large 
laboratory where mint water was distilled, of 
the poultry-yard whose emanations poisoned 
the air of the children’s schoolroom, of the 
back room where we breakfasted, of the front 
schoolroom, the refectory and the chapter- 
house, to say nothing of the cellars and un- 
derground passages,— theatres of our future 
exploits, But with all this space, the want 
of systematic arrangement caused discom- 
fort and inconvenience of which it would 
‘be hard to give an idea. 

The cells occupied by the nuns were de- 
lightfully neat, — tricked out, however, with 
knick-knacks devised, framed, colored, and 
tied up with ribbons by the patient inge- 
nuity of dainty devotees. 

In every corner of courts and gardens 
grape-vines and jessamine draped the crum- 
bling walls. The cocks crowed at midnight 


6 Conviend Life of George Sand. 


as if they were in the country, and the con- 
vent bell rang out with a silvery, feminine 
tone. In a niche artistically hewn, you 
saw a pretty conventional madonna of the 
_ seventeenth century; in the workroom rare. 
English engravings represented scenes ‘In 
the life of Charles I. All, to the wavering 
light of the little night lamp in the clois- 
ters, and the heavy doors that were swung 
to and bolted every evening, grating on 
their hinges, at the end of the reverberat- 
ing passages, —all was fraught with a 
mysterious poetic charm to which I became 
peculiarly sensitive. 

My first impressions, however, on enter- 
ing the children’s schoolroom, were very dis- 
agreeable ; thirty of us were crowded ina low, 
small room, with an ugly, glaring yellow 
wall-paper and a smoky, dilapidated ceiling. 
The furniture consisted of shabby stools, 
benches, and tables, with a dirty, smoky 
stove, and the atmosphere was redolent of 
bituminous coal and odors from the poultry- 
yard. The floor was uneven, and a hideous 
plaster crucifix was the only ornament of 
the room in which thirty children must pass 
two thirds of the day in summer and three 
quarters in winter. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 17 


Far more important, however, than sur- 
roundings, is giving children into the keep- 
ing of persons remarkable for intellect or 
character; and I amat a loss to understand 
how these nuns, so beautiful and kind them- 
selves, with such distinguished or affable 
manners, could have intrusted us to the 
care of a woman so repulsive in appear- 
ance and bearing as Miss D , head mis- 
tress of the children’s division. Corpulent, 
untidy, round-shouldered, narrow-minded, 
bigoted, and irritable, always harsh and 
often cruel, sly and vindictive, ill-tempered ~ 
and ill-mannered, — she inspired me at first 
‘ sight with the instinctive aversion felt for 
her by all my companions. No doubt some 
repulsive persons become so conscious of 
the effect they produce that they are there- 
by incapacitated from helping others, feeling 
that they make duty disagreeable merely 
by recommending it; and thus they come 
at last to care only for their own salva- 
tion, irrespective of others, —the most irre- | 
ligious of all pursuits. 

Miss D may have been warped in 
this way. Not to be unjust, I must say 
that she seemed really devout and austere, 


—a, sort of intolerant, detestable fanatic, 
2 








t 


18 Convent Life of George Sand. 


who might have had a certain grandeur 
about her if she had lived long ago in the 
desert with the anchorites whose faith she 
emulated. In her relations with us her 
austerity became ferocious. It was a joy 
for her to punish, a luxury to scold, and 
in her mouth scolding degenerated into 
abuse. She was treacherous, too, pretend- 
ing to go out (a thing she had no right 
to do when she was in charge of the 
schoolroom), and listening at the doors so 
as to overhear all we said against her 
and afterwards entrap us in falsehoods. 
Then her punishments were of the most 
degrading and humiliating kind. For in- 
stance, she would make us kiss the floor 
for what she called “our filthy speech.” It 
is true that it was part of the conven- 
tional discipline; but the nuns required 
only apparent conformity to the regulation, © 
never seeming to notice that we merely 
kissed our hands in stooping to the floor, 
while Miss D pushed our faces down 
in the dust, and would have hurt us if 
we had resisted. It was easy to detect per- 
sonal resentment in her severity, and she 
evidently was constantly enraged because 
we hated her. 





Convent Life of George Sand. 19 


There was one poor little English girl, 
five or six years old,a pale, delicate child, 
named Mary Eyre. At first Miss D 
seemed to try to take an interest in her, 
with a gleam of something like motherly 
feeling ;. but it was so foreign to her brutal, 
unfeminine nature, that there was an imme- 
diate revulsion. When she reproved the 
poor child she frightened her to death, or 
excited her to rebellion. Then, not to give 
way, she would end by shutting her up or 
even striking her. When at times she 
tried to joke, or amuse the little thing, it 
made you think of a bear playing with a 
grasshopper. Mary often seemed to scream 
and rebel either from a spirit of revolt or in 
angry despair; and from morning to night 
there was a perpetual contest going on, in-. 
supportable to ‘witness, between this great — 
coarse creature and the feeble child. But 
the rest of us did not escape; there was 
always time left for the ungovernable abuse 
and condign punishments of which we were 
all in turn the indignant victims. | 

I had been content to enter the lower 
class from an innate modesty not unusual 
in the children of vain parents; but it was 
an inexpressible humiliation to find myself 





20 Convent Life of George Sand. 


in the power of this unsexed tyrant. Her 
ill-humor was chronic, and I soon incurred 
her displeasure. Indeed, the first time she 
looked at me she said, “ You seem to be 
a very idle person,” and I was soon ranked 
with her worst antipathies ; for gayety was 
repugnant to her, a child’s laugh made her 
grind her teeth, and gladness and youth 
were criminal in her eyes. 

We only breathed freely when a sister 
came in to take her place; but that was 
generally merely for an hour or two in the 
day. The nuns made a great mistake in 
coming so little in direct contact with the 
pupils. We loved them; for they were 
all either distinguished, stately, sweet, or 
imposing. There was a nameless charm 
about them, and the dress may have had 
something to do with it; but their presence 
certainly calmed us as if by enchantment. 
These cloistered lives, their renunciation of 
the world and domestic joys, might have 
been useful to society if they had conse- 
crated themselves to the work of touching 
our hearts and forming our minds. The 
task would not have been a hard one if 
they had been truly devoted to such a mis- 
sion; but they said that they had no time 


Convent Life of George Sand. 21 


to spare, which was true because of the 
hours spent in church services and pri- 
vate devotion. That is one objection to 
convent schools; there are so many secu- 
lar teachers, female ushers supposed to be 
pious women, who are unfitted for their 
work and who tyrannize over the children. 
Our nuns would have been more meritori- 
ous in the sight of God, and it would have 
been far better for us and our parents, if 
they had devoted to our well-being — our 
salvation they would have said—a part of 
the time they selfishly spent in securing 
their own. 

The nun who occasionally took Miss 
D ’s place was Mother Alippe, as 
plump and ruddy as an over-ripe lady-apple 
that is just beginning to pucker. She 
was not very gentle, but she was just; and 
although I did not get along with her very 
well, we all liked her extremely. Having 
charge of our religious instruction, one day 
she asked me where the souls of unbaptized 
children were languishing. I knew nothing 
about it, and had never suspected that there 
could be a place of exile or punishment 
for these poor little beings, so I boldly 
answered, “ They are in God’s bosom.” 





~ 


22 Convent Life of George Sand. 


“What are you thinking of, wretched 
child!” half screamed Mother Alippe. 
“Didn’t you hear me? I asked you 
where the souls of unbaptized children 
dwell.” 

I was very much confused, and one of 
the girls, taking pity on my ignorance, 
prompted me in a whisper, saying, “In 
limbo,” — aux limbes. Her English ac- 
cent deceived me, and sure that she was 
joking, I repeated, “ Olympe,” — zz Olym- 
- pus, —turning round and_ bursting into 
laughter. , 

“ For shame!” exclaimed Mother Alippe. 
“ Are you making fun of the catechism?” 

“Excuse me,” I answered; “I did not 
mean to,” 

My evident sincerity appeased her, and 
she said, “Since your laughing was invol- 
untary, you need not kiss the floor; but 
you can make the sign of the cross to re- 
call your thoughts and bring you into a 
proper frame of mind.” 

Unfortunately, I did not know how to 
cross myself. It was the fault of my nurse, 
who had taught me to touch my right 
shoulder before the left; and the old 
priest at home had never noticed the mis- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 23 


take. But when Mother Alippe beheld 
this enormity, she frowned and said, “ Are 


you doing that on purpose, miss ?” 
“No, maam; what did I do?” 


“ Make the sign of the cross over again.” 

“So, Mother Alippe?” 

“You have done the same thing again!” 

“Certainly, Mother Alippe ; what shall I 
do now?” 

“ And is this the way you have always 
made the sign of the cross?” 

“Mon Dieu! yes.” 

“So you swear!” 

“Oh, no, Mother Alippe!” 

“You miserable child! How have you 
been brought up? Why, she is a heathen, 
a real heathen; she says that children’s 
souls go to Olympus. She makes the sign 
of the cross from right to left, and she says 
‘Mon Dieu!’ when she is not praying. 
Go and study your catechism with little 
Mary Eyre; I should not be surprised if she 
knew more about it than you do.” 

I was not very much mortified, I ac- 
knowledge, and had to try hard to keep 
from laughing. The convent religion 
seemed to me so petty and childish that 
I made up my mind to have very little to 


24 Convent Life of George Sand. 


do with it, and not treat it seriously. I 
was mistaken; my time was yet to come; 
but not till I had left the lower class. The 
atmosphere was not conducive to devotion, 
and certainly I should never have been 
pious if I had remained under the hated 
sway of Miss D or the slightly fussy 
rule of good Mother Alippe. 





Convent Life of George Sand. 25 


II. 


N entering the convent I was not de- 
liberately rebellious, — upon the whole 

I was more inclined to docility than revolt; 
but when I found myself subject to the 
senseless injustice of Miss D——,I en- 
rolled myself resolutely with “les diables,” 
for so they called those girls who were not 
devout and did not mean to be. The well- 
behaved pupils were known as “the good 





girls,’ — “les sages;” and there was an in- 
termediate variety that went by the name of 
“the stupid ones,” —‘“les bétes.” These 


last never took sides with any one, laughing 
heartily at the misdemeanors of “les dia- 
bles,” till the teachers or “the good girls” 
came in, when they cast their eyes down, 
and never failed to say “I didn’t do it,” as 
soon as there was any danger of punish- 
ment. The most cowardly among them 
even got into the habit of adding, “ It was 
Mary G or Dupin.” 





26 Convent Life of George Sand. 





I was Dupin, and Mary G was the 
leader of “les diables ” in the lower class, 
the most original girl in the whole con- 
vent. She was of Irish extraction, and 
though only eleven was taller and stronger 
than I was at thirteen. Her deep voice, 
her frank, fearless expression and rough, 
independent manners had obtained for her 
the nickname of “the boy;” and though 
she afterwards became a beautiful woman, 
there was certainly something masculine 
about her. She was proud and outspoken, 
remarkable for her strength and agility 
and still more phenomenal boldness; but 
her exuberant spirits and constant activity, 
her heartfelt contempt for anything that 
was false and mean, excited my unbounded 
admiration. 

On my arrival Mary G was away, but 
was soon described to me as a person above 
all things to be avoided. In fact, she was the 
terror of the stupid girls, who naturally tried 
to enroll me in their ranks. The good girls 
also were friendly, and put me on my guard 
against her roughness and petulance, so 
that I began to be really afraid of what she 
might do. Some knowing ones told me, in 
an undertone of conviction, that she was 





Convent Life of George Sand. 27 


truly a boy, whom her parents were trying 
to pass off as a girl: She destroyed every- 
thing she laid her hands on, she tormented 
everybody, she was stronger than the gar- 
dener, she would not let the girls alone who 
wanted to study,—%in short, she was a 
plague and a nuisance, and it was useless to 
try and stop her. “ Wait a little,” said I to 
myself. ‘“I am strong, too, and I am not 
cowardly either. I should like to see any 
one prevent me from saying and thinking 
just as I please!” However, I must say I 
awaited her return with some anxiety, for I 
did not like the idea of a hostile element in 
the class; it was enough to contend with 
the common enemy, Miss D 

Mary came, and I was at once attracted by 
her open countenance. “Good!” said I to 
myself. “I know we shall get along per- 
fectly.” But I hung back, since it was for her, 
an old pupil, to make the first advances. She 
began by making fun of me: “ Dupin, — du 
pain, — some bread; and then Aurora, the 
rising sun, — what beautiful names, and what 
a face, to be sure! Why, she has a horse’s 
head on a hen’s body! Aurora, I pros- 
trate myself before you, and wish I were a 
sunflower to salute you the first thing in 





28 Convent Life of George Sand. 


the morning. It seems that you call aux 
limbes ‘Olympus. A pretty education you 
must have had! You will be capital fun.” 

All the girls shouted with laughter, es- 
pecially the stupid ones, and the good girls 
did not seem displeased to have one “ dia- 
ble” attack another; for union is strength. 
-I laughed as heartily as any, and Mary saw 
at once that I was not thin-skinned. She 
went on joking, but in a good-humored way, 
and half an hour later she gave me a tre- 
mendous slap on the shoulder. It would 
have knocked down an ox; but I returned 
it with interest, laughing all the time. 

“ Say, let us go to walk!” 

“Where?” I answered. 

“Oh, anywhere, so long as it is out of 
the schoolroom!” 

“ How can we?” 

“Don’t be a ninny! Watch me —see 
what I do, and do the same.” 

We were all standing, getting up from 
table. Mother Alippe was coming along 
with her books and papers, and profiting 
by the momentary confusion, but without 
taking the slightest precaution, Mary walked 
out unnoticed, and sat down outside in the 
deserted cloister. I joined her a few min- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 29 


utes later, but did not say a word. “So 
here you are,” she said. “What excuse did . 
you make to get out?” 

“T didn’t make any; I walked out just 
as you did.” 

“That is the right way. Some girls tell 
lies, ask permission to go and practise, or 
pretend that they have bleeding at the 
nose; others say they want to go and say 
their prayers in the chapel, — old stories. 
I, won’t lie, because it is mean; I go in and 
out, they ask me questions, and I won’t say 
a word; then they punish me, and I laugh 
at it. The upshot is that I do as I like.” 

“T wish I could!” 

“ Then bea ‘diable.’” 

“IT want to be one.” 

“Like mee 

“ Just like you.” 

“Well and good,” said she, shaking 
hands. “Let us go back now and behave 
very well for Mother Alippe; she is an ex- 
cellent woman. We can save ourselves for 
Miss D Every single evening out of 
the schoolroom!—do you hear?” _ 

“ How do you mean, — out of the school- 
room ?” | 

“ Why, evening recreation in the school- 





en 


- 


“30 Convent Life of George Sand. 


room is horribly stupid. We can vanish, 
coming out of the refectory, and only go back 
at prayer-time. Sometimes D does not 
notice our absence, and when she does she 
is enchanted, because she has the pleasure 
of punishing us when we get back. The 
punishment is having to wear your night- 
cap all the next day, even in church. In 
such cold weather as this it is a capital 
thing, good for the health, — only when the 
sisters meet you they make the sign of the 
cross and say ‘Shame;’ but that does not 
hurt anybody. When you have worn your 
night-cap a great deal for a fortnight, the 
Superior threatens not to let you go out 
when your parents send for you; but some- 
times our relatives coax her, or else she 
forgets. However, when the night-cap be- 
comes chronic, she has to keep you in; but 
I say it is better to lose a day’s pleasure 
once in a while than to have a stupid time 
all your life.” 

“T think so too; but what does Miss 
do when she perfectly hates you ?” 

“Oh, she abuses you like a fish-wife, — 
that is just what she is, —and you never 
say a word, and that enrages her still 
more.” 





D 





- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 31 


“ Does n't she ever strike you ?” 

“She is dying to all the time; but she 
would have no excuse to give, and she 
knows that. Some of the good girls and 
all the stupid ones are afraid of her; the rest 
despise her and hold their tongues just as 
we do.” : 

“How many ‘diables’ are there in the 
class?” 

“Not many, and we need _ reinforce- 
ment,—only Sophia, Isabella, and our- 
selves. All the others are either good or 
stupid. Among the good girls there are 
two — Valentine de Gouy and Louise de la 
Rochejaquelein — who know as much as I 
do, only they don’t dare to come out. 
Never mind, though; some of the older 
girls keep us in countenance, and they will 
join us to-night.” 

“ What do you do?” 

“You shall see; you are going to be 
initiated this evening.” 

-You may think with what impatience I 
waited for night and supper-time. On leav- 
ing the refectory recreation began. In sum- 
mer both classes met in the garden; but: 
in winter the big girls went back to their 
handsome, spacious quarters, and we were 


32 ~«©Convent Life of George Sand. 





-cooped up where Miss D forced us to 
amuse ourselves quietly, — that is to say, not 
amuse ourselves at all. Coming out of the 
refectory there was naturally a throng about 
the door, and I was delighted to see how 
adroitly “les diables” availed themselves of 
the confusion they created on purpose to 
steal away. The cloister was only lighted 
by one small lamp, which left the other 
passages almost dark. Instead of walking 
straight forward to the schoolroom, you 
slipped aside into the left-hand corridor, let 
the other girls go by, and you were free. 
There I was in the dark with Mary and 
the other girls she had mentioned. I only re- 
member that evening Sophia and Isabella, 
who belonged to our class,—two charm- 
- ing girls two or three years older than 
myself. Isabella, tall, fair, and rosy, was 
pleasant to look at, but not strictly pretty; 
very gay and good-tempered and full of fun, 
especially remarkable for her talent and 
facility in drawing. She would take-a 
piece of paper, with a bit of charcoal ora 
spattering-pen, and in the twinkling of an 
eye you would see hundreds of figures, well 
grouped, boldly sketched, each one helping 
to carry out the main idea, that was always 


Convent Life of George Sand. 33 


original and often extraordinary. Some- 
times there were processions of nuns cross- 
ing a gothic cloister, or else a cemetery by 
moonlight. The tombs were opening as the 
sisters drew near, and the shrouded dead 
were beginning to bestir themselves, sing- 
ing, playing on different instruments, and 
inviting the nuns, with extended hands, to 
be their partners in a dance. Some of the 
sisters were frightened and were running 
away and screaming, while the bolder nuns 
danced along, dropping veils and mantles 
as they whirled and capered with the spec- 
tres in the dim distance; or again, there 
were fancy nuns, with goats’ feet, or in ~ 
Louis XIII. boots, decked with enormous 
spurs, displayed as they held up their flow- 
ing garments. Her vivid imagination cre- 
ated a hundred ways of representing this 
dance of death, for I do not believe that 
she knew about it historically. Then there 
were sketches of interiors, caricatures of 
sisters, pupils, servants, teachers, professors, 
visitors, and priests. She was the faithful 
_ chronicler of all the adventures, hoaxes, 
panics, and skirmishes, of all the annoy- 
ances and all the pleasures of our convent | 
life. The incessant contest of poor little 
3 


34 Convent Life of George Sand. 


Mary Eyre with her tormentor furnished 
her every day with twenty sketches, each 
one more pitiful and realistic than the last, 
and her invention seemed as inexhaustible 
as our admiration. Drawing these figures 
on the sly, at all hours, during lessons, even 
in the face and eyesof our Argus, some- 
times she narrowly escaped detection by 
rolling up the paper and tossing it adroitly 
in the fire or out of the window. That 
schoolroom stove has thus devoured count- 
less unknown masterpieces. My retrospec- 
tive imagination may exaggerate the merit 
of her productions; but it seems to me that 
they must have been very remarkable, and 
would have excited the surprise and interest 
of a good teacher. 

Sophia — Isabella’s inseparable friend — 
was one of the prettiest and most graceful 
girls in the school. Her willowy figure was 
insular in its languid poses; but she had 
none of the national awkwardness. Her 
neck was swan-like, and her small head, 
beautifully poised, was graceful in every 
motion. She had fine eyes; a low, stubborn 
forehead, shaded by a profusion of shining 
brown hair; a rosy mouth, pearly teeth, and 
a blooming complexion (very white for a 


Convent Life of George Sand. 35 


brunette); and even her ugly nose could not 
spoil her beautiful face. We all called her 
“the jewel.” Amiable and sentimental, ex- 
clusive and enthusiastic in her friendships 
and implacable in her aversions, she showed 
dislike by an invincible disdain. Adored 
by almost all the girls, she only deigned to 
return the affection of a chosen few. I was 
devoted to her and Isabella; but they were 
rather condescending in their manners: per- 
haps that was natural, for 1 was a mere child 
in comparison. 

That night when we first met in the 
cloister, I saw that all were armed with 
shovel, tongs, or sticks of wood. Not liking 
to be the only one without anything in 
my hand, I ventured back to the school- 
room, seized a large poker, and succeeded 
in getting away again undiscovered. I was 
then told the great secret, and we all set 
out on our expedition. This secret was a 
convent legend, handed down for more 
than two centuries, — founded, perhaps, on 
reality, but which certainly at this late day 
was only perpetuated by our lively imagi- 
nations. We were to find and deliver “ the 
victim.” There was somewhere a prisoner — 
some said several prisoners — confined in a 


36 Convent Life of George Sand. 


cell contrived in the thickness of the walls, 
or else incarcerated in a deep dungeon be- 
neath the vaults of the immense subterra- 
nean passages that extended not only under 
the whole monastery but beneath a great 
part of that quarter of the city. There was 
really a great underground labyrinth, which 
we never fully explored, and from which we 
emerged into different parts of the cellars 
of the vast convent buildings. We said to 
each other that these passages must be 
connected with the excavations that under- 
‘lie a great part of Paris and the surround- 
ing country as far as Vincennes. From 
the convent cellars perhaps we could get 
into the catacombs, the quarries, the Palais 
des Thermes. In short, to us it was the 
entrance to a whole world of darkness, ter- 
ror, and mystery,—a gulf under our very 
feet, closed with iron doors; and our ex- 
ploring expeditions were as fraught with 
imaginary peril as the descent into hell of 
fEneas or Dante. The danger was the 
great temptation, to which we _ yielded 
with delight, in spite of the insurmount- 
able difficulties of the enterprise and the 
condign punishment that no doubt awaited 
our detection. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 37 


There was a main entrance wide open at 
the foot of the cellar stairs leading from the 
kitchen; but the lay sisters were always 
near at hand, and we were persuaded that 
there were many other ways of getting in. 
According to us, every walled-up door, 
every dark corner, every wall that sounded 
hollow, might be in mysterious connection 
with these places ; and we tried unweariedly 
to find an opening, even under the roofs. 
I had read Mrs. Radcliffe, and my com- 
panions had a store of Scotch and Irish 
legends that would make your hair stand 
on end; the convent, too, had its own 
stories of ghostly apparitions and mys- 
terious noises. All that, and the undying 
hope of discovering “the victim,” stimu- 
lated the girls to a wild enthusiasm ; and 
they were easily persuaded that they heard 
sighs and groans issuing from the ground 
under their feet, or front fissures in the 
doors and walls. 

So I set out on my first expedition, 
thrilled with the expectation of finding the 
long-lost captive. It might have quenched 
our enthusiasm to consider that she was no 
longer young,—two hundred years old 
more or less; but we never stopped to 


38 Convent Life of George Sand. 


think about that. We sought, we called 
aloud, we thought of her unceasingly, and 
never despaired of success. 

That night we directed our steps to the 
most ruinous part of the building, — very 
mysterious for a nocturnal exploration, — 
and cautiously walked along a narrow shelf 
on the brink of what we supposed to be a 
deep cellar, without any apparent outlet. 
A mouldy wooden railing guarded the 
edge, and stairs, with a baluster, led down 
to this unknown region; but an oaken door 
at the head of these stairs closed the en- 
trance, and we found it was padlocked. To 
circumvent this obstaclé we managed to 
squeeze between the rails, and walking on 
the outer edge of the worm-eaten baluster, 
we reached the other side of the door at the 
head of the stairs. Below us yawned a dark 
abyss; we had only one little coil of wax 
taper, called a “rat de cave,” that shed a 
faint light on the upper steps of this mys- 
terious stairway, and it seemed a great risk ; 
but Isabella led the way like a heroine, 
Mary followed with the practised ease and 
agility of a professor of gymnastics, and we 
all imitated her, more or less clumsily, and 
never thought of turning back. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 39 


In a moment we were at the foot of the 
flight, but discovered, with more joy I 
think than real disappointment, that there 
was no getting out of this square cellar but 
the way by which we had come. There 
was no door, no window, no apparent or 
assignable use for this large space abso- 
lutely without egress. What could be the 
object of a staircase to get down into such 
a place? we said; and why was there a 
solid padlocked door to close the entrance ? 
We divided the taper, and each one searched 
for herself. There might be a secret trap- 
door, leading to a passage, under one of the 
wooden stairs. While some examined the 
steps, and tried to pry the old boards apart, 
others sounded the walls, hoping to find a 
crack, a button, or a hidden ring, —some 
Radcliffian invention to lift a stone or move 
a sliding panel that would prove the en- 
trance to mysterious and unknown regions. 
But we discovered nothing of the kind; the 
rough, whitewashed wall presented an un- 
broken surface, the floor sounded dead 
under our feet, we could find no flagstone 
to lift, and the staircase concealed no secret 
passage. But Isabella would not give up; 
in the farthest corner under the stairs she 


40 Convent Life of George Sand. 


was sure that the wall sounded hollow. We 
all tried it, and were convinced that it was 
really so. ° 

“ That is it!” we cried. “There must be 
the entrance to the secret dungeon, — to 
the sepulchre of living victims.” 

We all listened intently, but heard no- 
thing. Isabella, however, declared that she 
could plainly distinguish low moans, and 
clanking of chains. What was to be 
done? 

“Nothing is easier,” said Mary. “We 
must break through this masonry; all to- 
gether we can certainly make a hole in this 
wall.” 

So we went to work with a good will, 
some knocking with sticks of wood, others 
scraping away with shovels and_ tongs, 
without once stopping to think of the 
danger of bringing the old wall down on 
our heads. Fortunately we could not ac- 
complish much, because if we dealt heavy 
blows, the noise would betray us, — so we 
could do nothing but poke and scratch ; 
but we had succeeded in making quite a 
pile of rubbish when the bell rang for 
prayers. We had barely time to make 
our perilous ascent, put out our lights, and 


Convent Life of George Sand. 41 


grope our way back to the schoolroom, 
appointing a rendezvous for the next night 
at the same hour. It was agreed that no 
one should wait for the others who might 
be kept away by punishment, or called — 
back as they were going out. Each one 
should do her best to make a breach in 
the wall. There was no danger of the 
heap of rubbish attracting attention, for 
the place seemed given up to mice and 
spiders. . 

We helped one another to brush off the 
dust and lime with which we were covered, 
hurried through the cloisters, and got back 
to our schoolroom just as prayers were be- 
ginning. I do not remember being pun- 
ished that time; but not infrequently we 
escaped with impunity. Miss D used 
to knit of an evening, talking all the time, 
and squabbling with Mary Eyre. The 
room was imperfectly lighted, and I do 
not think her sight was very good. How- 
ever that may be, with all her love of es- 
pionage, she was not very discerning; and 
we often succeeded in eluding her vigi- 
‘lance. In fact, once outside the school- 
room door, it would have been hard to 
find us in the great rambling convent, and 





42 Convent Life of George Sand. 


she was probably afraid of a scandal if she 
divulged our frequent absences, — for which 
they might hold her accountable; the fact 
would have been a discredit to her disci- 
pline: and we cared as little for the peniten- 
tial night-cap as we did at last for the lav- 
ish abuse of this delightful person. The 
Superior, politic and indulgent, was not 
inclined to keep us from going out on 
holidays, and she alone decided those ques- 
tions; so that upon the whole we had a 
great deal of liberty, in spite of the bad 
temper of our schoolmistress. 

The pursuit of the great secret, the search 
for the victim, was continued all the winter; 
and we made a considerable breach in the 
wall before coming to heavy beams that 
brought us to a full stop. Then we sought 
elsewhere, dug in twenty different places, 
without any success, but with unfailing 
hope. One day we took a fancy to seek an 
entrance to the subterranean world of our 
dreams by descending from the roof, where 
there were a great many mansard windows 
lighting undiscovered regions. In one of 
these garrets was a-small room for piano prac- 
tice, — one of the thirty or more scattered 
about the establishment. We all were ex- 


f 


Convent Life of George Sand. 43. 


pected ‘to practise an hour at least every 
day, and sometimes we were sent to the 
garret for this purpose, — thus affording a 
good opportunity for adventures by day as 
well as by night. We agreed to meet in 
one of these out-of-the-way rooms, and 
thence start as fancy led in search of the 
unknown. From the attic where I was 
supposed to be practising scales, I could 
see a wide expanse of roofs, sheds, and pent- 
houses, all covered with moss-grown tiles 
and diversified by tumble-down chimneys. 
This was a fine field for new exploring ex- 
peditions; so out we went on the roofs, 
jumping down from the window to a gutter, 
six feet below us, connecting two gables. 
To scramble up these gables, encounter 
others, leap like cats from one steep roof to 
another, was more dangerous than difficult; 
and the risk only added to the delightful 
excitement. 

For more than an hour we had gone 
on in this way in our lofty gymnasium 
overlooking the gardens, — dodging be- 
hind a chimney whenever we caught sight 
of the black veil of a sister who might 
have looked up,—when all at once we 
stopped and asked one another how we were 


44 Convent Life of George Sand. 


ever going to get back. Jumping up was 
a different thing from jumping down; and 
‘in some places we should certainly have 
needed a ladder. Moreover, we had no idea 
where we were. At last we recognized the 
window of a private pupil, — Sidonie Mac- 
donald, daughter of the celebrated general,— 
and we could get there by one more jump, 
longer than any we had yet undertaken. I 
was in too much of a hurry, and caught my 
heel in the sash of a skylight over a gallery, 
breaking half a dozen panes of glass, that 
fell with a crash thirty feet below into a 
court close to the entrance of the kitchens. 
I should have fallen through also, but 
fortunately came down sidewise, and es- 
caped with skinning my knees, which bled 
profusely. 

Great excitement ensued among the lay 
sisters, who came running out. Lying low 
aloft, we heard the resounding voice of 
Sister Theresa abusing the cats and accus- 
ing “ Whisky,” the favorite tabby of Mother 
Alippe, of fighting with the others and 
breaking all the window-glass in the con- 
vent. Sister Marie took up the cudgels for 
Whisky, and Sister Helen was sure that a 
chimney had been blown down on the 


Convent Life of George Sand. 45 


roof. Hearing them talk in this way threw © 
us into uncontrollable fits of laughter: we 
knew that they were coming upstairs to 
investigate ; but though in danger of being 
detected in the unpardonable sin of scramb- 
ling over the roofs, we could not have 
moved to save our lives. One girl was 
stretched out at full length in a gutter, an- 
other had lost her comb, and I had just 
discovered that one of my shoes had gone 
through the opening and fallen at the — 
kitchen door. In ‘spite of my knees, I 
was choking with laughter, and could only 
point to my shoeless foot and explain the 
situation by signs; then there was a new 
explosion of laughter. 

But the alarm had been given, and we 
heard the sisters coming. This sobered 
us, and gave us time to reflect that where 
we were it was impossible for them to see 
us unless they mounted by a ladder to 
the broken skylight, or followed in the 
way we had come over the roofs; and we 
were perfectly sure that the nuns would not 
do that. Once conscious of the superior 
advantages of our position, we began to mew 
vigorously, so that Whisky and his com- 
panions might be accused and convicted in 


~ 


46 Convent Life of George Sand. 


our stead; and then we all climbed through 
Sidonie’s window, without, however, meet- 
ing with a very cordial reception. The poor 
child, practising conscientiously, had paid no 
attention to the feline howls that saluted her 
ears. She was delicate and nervous, very 
gentle and quiet, quite incapable of under- 
standing what pleasure there could be in 
such expeditions as ours. When she heard 
us all bouncing through the window, to 
which her back was turned, she jumped up, 
and screamed with terror. We could not 
stop to explain, fearing that her cries would 
bring the nuns to her assistance; so we 
darted through the room and out of the 
door, while, trembling all over, with af- 
frighted eyes she saw the strange proces- 
sion rush by, without guessing what it 
meant, or recognizing one of us in her be- 
wilderment. In a moment we had scat- 
tered: one ran up to the room whence we 
started, and played with all her might. on 
the piano; another went a long way round 
to reach the schoolroom; my anxiety was 
to recover my shoe, and I was fortunate 
enough to find it before that incriminating 
piece of evidence had been noticed, or 
brought forward by any one. Whisky was 


Convent Life of George Sand. 47 


formally accused, and bore all the blame, — 
but not all the penalty, for my knees were 
very painful for several days. I said noth- 
ing about it, however, and our nightly ex- 
peditions went on as usual. 


48 Convent Life of George Sand. 


IV. 


UT for this constant excitement, I do 
not believe that I could have remained 

in the convent. The fare was very good; 
but we suffered cruelly from cold, and the 
winter was exceptionally severe. The first 
half of the day I was literally benumbed. 
Our dormitory was under the mansard roof, 
and it was so cold there that often I could 
not sleep, and heard the clock strike hour 
after hour. At six the two maids, Josepha 
and Marie Anne, came pitilessly to wake 
us up; and washing and dressing by candle- 
light in the morning has always seemed to 
me forlorn. We often broke the ice for 
our ablutions, to get at water that did not 
wash.. Then we had chilblains, and it 
was dreadful to squeeze our swollen, some- 
times bleeding feet into tight shoes. We 
heard mass by candle-light, shivering in 
our seats, or falling asleep on our knees in 
the attitude of devotion. At seven we 
breakfasted on a bit of bread and a cup of 


Convent Life of George Sand. 49 


tea, and at last in the schoolroom saw the 
light of day, and a little fire in the stove; 
but as I said, it was often noon before I 
thawed out. I had severe colds, and sharp 
pains in all my limbs; and it was fifteen 
years before I fully recovered from the 
effect of these hardships. But my friend 
Mary could not tolerate complaining. 
Strong as a boy herself, she scorned want 
of endurance in others; and in much suf- 
ering I learned the hard lesson of not 
indulging in self-pity. 

When my grandmother was about to 
leave Paris she asked permission to have 
me with her for two or three consecutive 
Thursdays. The Superior did not dare to 
acknowledge that I had bad marks from all 
the teachers without exception, that I was 
making no progress, and that the night-cap 
was my habitual head-dress. If she had done 
so, my grandmother might have said that 
since I was wasting my time, I had better 
go home; therefore little notice was taken 
of my idleness or misdemeanors. 

I expected to enjoy these holidays far 
more than I really did. I had become accus- 
tomed to living in common with other girls, 
and to passing comparatively unnoticed; and 

3 4 


50 Convent Life of George Sand. 


at home they made too much of me, asked 
me too many questions, said I was changed, 
dull, or absent-minded. When evening 
came, and they took me back to the con- 
vent, the first impression was painful; the 
contrast was too great, — coming from the 
warm, perfumed, well-lighted parlor, to the 
cold, dark cloister, with its bare walls; from 
my grandmother’s fond caresses, to the 
glum salutation of the porter and the nun 
at the turning-box. I shivered as I hurried 
through the corridors paved with tomb- 
stones; but once past the cloisters, I was 
under the spell. Vanloo’s madonna seemed 
to smile down on me; I was not devout, 
but the bluish light of her little lamp 
always threw me into a_ sweet, vague 
revery. I heard Mary call me impatiently; 
the stupid girls thronged about me, asking 
what I had seen and what I had done 
through the day. 

“Isn't it horrid to come back? ”’ they said. 

I did not answer; for I could not tell 
why I liked the convent life better than 
living with my family. 

On the eve of my grandmother’s depart- 
ure a great storm burst upon me. Al- 
though I was no talker, I wrote with great 


- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 51 


ease, and delighted in keeping a journal, in 
which our daily misdemeanors and the pun- 
ishments inflicted by Miss D were 
duly recorded in a sarcastic style. This 
was regularly sent to my grandmother, who 
seemed very much amused, and, far from 
scolding me, never once inculcated submis- 
sion or cajolery, — certainly not hypocrisy. . 
It was customary to leave all the letters to 
be sent away every night on a chest in the 
Superior’s ante-chamber. Those not ad- 
dressed to relatives must be left open; but 
parents’ letters were always sealed, and it 
was understood that the seal was to be re- 
spected. It would have been very easy for 
me to send these effusions by the servants, 
who often brought me things, of came to 
ask how I was; but it never entered my 
head to doubt the honor of the Superior. 
She had said in so many words before me 
that she never opened letters written to 
parents, and I believed her. 

It appeared that the volume and fre- 
quency of my letters had aroused her sus- 
picion, and that she had deliberately un- 
sealed and suppressed my satires, doing 
this repeatedly before denouncing me, so 
that she might become well acquainted 





52 Convent Life of George Sand. 


with my ideas and statements about Miss 
D If the reverend mother had been 
wise and kindly, she might have availed 
herself of this discovery, — reproving me, 
but dismissing the teacher. A really good 
woman, however, never could have set 
such a trap for an unsuspecting child, or 
have violated a confidence she had _her- 
self authorized. Madame Canning showed 
the letters to Miss D , who naturally 
enough did not think my unflattering por- 
trait a very good likeness. The hatred 
already provoked by my invincible obsti- 
nacy, as well as by the calm suavity of 
my manners, flamed out. She called me 
an abominable liar, a free thinker, a vile 
informer, a serpent. The Superior then 
confronted her with me; but I remained 
unrepentant and mute, till Madame Can- 
ning graciously volunteered not to let my 
grandmother know, and to keep silence 
in regard to these infamous letters. I felt 
keenly the duplicity of such a proceeding, 
and told her that I had a rough draft of 
each one of my letters, that my grand- 
mother should have it, and that I should 
maintain then and now the truth of my 
assertions; moreover, that since I could 








Convent Life of George Sand. 53 


not depend upon assurances that had been 
made me, I should ask my grandmother to 
take me away from the convent. 

It cannot be said that the Superior was 
. destitute of good qualities; but her conduct 
was not calculated to inspire respect, when, 
pouring out the vials of her wrath on my 
head, with a torrent of abuse she ordered 
me to leave the room instantly. Though 
a woman of the world, who could be queenly 
in her manner at times, she certainly was 
not ladylike when she flew into a rage. 
Perhaps, however, as a foreigner, she did not 
appreciate the full value of the expressions 
she used, and I did not know enough Eng- 
lish to be rebuked in that language. Miss 
D shut her eyes, and looked down 
‘with a hypocritical expression, as if she 
were a saint listening to the voice of God 
in her soul, pitying me, and keeping silence 
in mercy. 

An hour afterwards the Superior entered 
the refectory, followed by a train of attend- 
ant nuns. After inspecting the table, she 
stopped directly in front of me, and open- 
ing her handsome dark eyes very wide, said 
impressively, — 

“Try and ce the truth!” 





54 Convent Life of George Sand. 


The good girls shuddered and crossed 
themselves, the stupid ones whispered to 
one another and stared at me; and when 
dinner was over I was eagerly questioned 
to know what it meant. 

“Tt means,” I said, “that next week I 
shall not be here.” 

I was very angry, but deeply grieved ; for 
~ I did not want to leave the convent, and 
break up my precious friendships. 

My grandmother arrived, was closeted 
with the Superior, who, sure that I would 
tell everything, made up her mind at last 
to relinquish my letters, characterizing them 
as a shameless tissue of falsehoods. I 
rather think that she had the worst of it, 
and that my grandmother told her plainly 
what she thought of such an abuse of con-. 
fidence, defending me, and declaring that 
she should take me away at once. 

However that may-be, I know that when 
I was summoned to the Superior’s parlor 
both ladies were trying to be very grave and 
quiet, and both looked very much excited. 
My grandmother kissed me affectionately, 
and reproached me for nothing but my 
idleness, and the time I had wasted in 
childish mischief. Then the Superior said 


Convent Life of George Sand. 55 


that it was decided that I was to leave the 
lower division, where my intimacy with 
Mary had proved so prejudicial, and enter 
immediately the higher class. 

This piece of good news —a change for 
the better in reality — was announced in 
a very severe tone of voice. She hoped 
that since I should now be separated from 
Miss D -,I would cease to satirize her, 
and told me that I must at once break off 
my relations with Mary. She trusted that 
this enforced separation might be of use to 
both of us. 

I assured her that I was perfectly willing 
to let Miss D alone, but that I should 
never promise not to love Mary. Of course 
we must be separated, since we could only 
meet now in the garden at recess. 

My grandmother went off to Nohant, 
very well satisfied with the result of this 
affair. I was promoted to the upper class, 
where Sophia and Isabella had already pre- 
ceded me. I vowed to Mary a friendship 
for life and death; but I had not heard the 
last of the dreadful Miss D 











56 Convent Life of George Sand. 


Vv. 


MUST not leave the lower class with- 

out mentioning two girls whom I loved 
very much, although they were not “ dia- 
bles,” — Valentine de Gouy and Louise de 
la Rochejaquelein. 

Valentine wasa mere child, — if I remem- 
ber rightly, — about nine or ten years old; 
and as she was small and delicate, she 
did not seem much older than Mary Eyre 
and Helen Kelly, the two “ babies” of the 
class. But she was so intelligent that her 
companionship was as agreeable as Sophia’s 
or Isabella's. With a marvellous facility 
of acquiring, she was as far advanced in 
her studies as many of the larger girls; and 
she was very interesting, too, — full of can- 
dor and kindness. My bed was next to 
Valentine’s in the dormitory, and I liked 
to take care of her at night as if she had 
been my child. 

The other friend, who soon rejoined me 
in the upper class, was Louise de la Roche- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 57 


jaquelein, daughter of the Marchioness de 
la Rochejaquelein who wrote an interesting 
history of the first Vendean war, —a book 
that does equal credit to the head and the 
heart of its author. Louise had inherited 
from her mother, with that heart and head, 
the courage and intolerance of the old 
Chouans, as well as the poetic nobleness 
of that: warlike peasantry among whom 
she had been brought up. I had read 
Madame de la Rochejaquelein’s book, pub- 
lished not long before, and though I had 
no sympathy with Louise’s royalist pre- 
judices, I avoided all dispute, feeling a 
profound respect for her religious inher- 
itance, and great interest in her vivid de- 
scriptions of the manners and scenery of 
“Le Bocagé.” 

I visited her once, a few years later, and 
saw her mother. I do not remember 
exactly where they lived, but it was a 
great hotel of the Faubourg Saint Germain. 
I arrived modestly in a hack,—an equi- 
page suited to my means and habits, —and 
alighted in the street, for the door of the 
court was not swung open to hired car- 
riages. The porter, an old family servant, 
tried to stop me as I entered; but I said, 


58 Convent Life of George Sand. 


“Excuse me, but I have come to see_ Ma- 
dame de la Rochejaquelein.” 

“ You!” he said, surveying me from head 
to foot, with evident contempt for my plain 
street’ dress. “ Well, then, come in;” 
and he shrugged his shoulders, as if to 
say, “ The family receives Tom, Dick, and 
Harry.” 

I tried to close the door behind me, but 
it was too heavy; so I left it ajar, not wish- 
ing to soil my gloves, and I -was already 
halfway upstairs when the old Cerberus 
called after me, — 

*¥our door!” 

“What door?” 

“The street door.” , 

“Oh, excuse me! that is your door, not 
mine,’ I answered, laughing. 

He went off, grumbling, to shut it, and 
I kept on my way, wondering if the 
illustrious lackeys of my old friend would 
treat me in the same manner. 

Seeing a great many of these gentlemen 
in the antechamber, I perceived that there 
was company, and sent in my card to 
Louise ; for I was in Paris only for a few 
days, and she had expressed a wish to see 
me. She came out directly, and carried 


Convent Life of George Sand. 59 


me off to the drawing-room with all her old 
gayety and cordiality. In the corner where 
she made me sit down by her there were 
only young persons, —her sisters and their 
friends. The older guests were clustered 
round her mother, who occupied an arm- 
chair a little apart from the rest. I was 
terribly disappointed to find that the heroine | 
of La Vendée was a common-looking, red- 
faced woman. On her right stood a 
Vendean peasant, who had left his village 
probably for the first time, to see her or to 
see Paris. He had been dining with the 
family. Undoubtedly he was an old re- 
tainer, perhaps a hero of the last Vendée; 
for he seemed too young to have been in 
the first war, and Louise only said, in an- 
swer to my inquiry, “He is one of our 
good peasants.” Coarsely dressed in jacket 
and trousers, with a white scarf on his 
arm, he carried a venerable rapier, that was 
always getting between his legs, and made 
him look like a constable in a country pro- 
cession. Altogether he was not at all my 
ideal partisan, — half shepherd and _ half 
brigand, — and he had a way of saying, 
every minute, “ Madame la Marquise,” that 
displeased me very much, 


60 Convent Life of George Sand. 


But I admired the high-bred kindness 
and simplicity of the old lady’s manners: 
she was almost blind; and as she sat there 
surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women, 
all showing her profound respect, I said 
to myself, “ Not one of them all has for 
that white hair and those dimmed blue 
eyes half the veneration, perhaps, that I 
feel for her in my heart of hearts, —a 
secret homage, more to be appreciated be- 
cause it is the spontaneous tribute of a 
girl who is neither a devotee nor a royal- 
ist.” Her conversation seemed to me more 
sensible than witty. 

When the peasant took leave, he shook 
hands, put his hat hard on his head, and 
strode out of the room; but no one even . 
smiled. 

Louise and her sisters were as simple in 
their dress as in their manners, which were 
plain, sometimes almost abrupt. They had 
no fancy work, but spun flax, peasant-fashion, 
with a distaff. It all seemed charming to 
me then, and perhaps it was so. Louise, 
I am sure, was perfectly simple and natu- 
ral; but there was something incongruous 
about it. The surroundings of a Vendean 
Chatelaine did not harmonize very well 


Convent Life of George Sand. 61 


with such rural occupations. A beautiful 
drawing-room, brilliantly lighted; an admir- 
ing crowd of noble, well-dressed ladies and 
ceremonious aristocrats; an antechamber 
full of lackeys; a porter who almost insulted 
visitors who came in hired carriages, — 
there was a discordant note that made you 
feel the insuperable difficulty of a public — 
and legitimate union of the people with 
the nobility. 


62 Convent Life of George Sand. 


VI. 


1 HAVE kept the elementary school- 
books we used in the lower class, the 
spelling-book, the “Garden of the Soul,” 
etc. They are scribbled over with mot- 
toes and rebuses, and best of all with 
the dialogues that we kept up surrepti- 
tiously during enforced silence, — a very 
common punishment. 

The cover of the book we were using — 
passed along under the table — kept the con- 
versation going at such times; and we also 
had letters, cut out of pasteboard, slipped 
on a string from one end of the schoolroom 
to the other. Words were rapidly formed 
in this way, and even a girl set apart by 
herself in a corner, for some misdemeanor, 
was easily kept informed of what was 
going on. 

Sometimes we improvised written con- 
fessions and examinations of conscience 
for the little girls, of which the following 


Convent Life of George Sand. 63 


is a specimen; but I do not remember who 
wrote it, nor for whom it was intended. 


CONFESSION OF 


Alas! dear Father Villéle, I very often get ink 
on my hands. Sometimes I snuff the candle with 
my fingers; and when I eat too many beans, I 
suffer from indigestion, — as I was taught to say in 
the fashionable world where I was brought up. 
I have shocked the young ladies of the class 
by my untidiness. I have looked as stupid as an 
owl, and I have forgotten to think of anything in 
particular, more than two hundred times a day. 
I have gone to sleep at catechism, and I have 
snored at mass. I have said that you were not 
handsome. I have let my taper drip on Mother 
Alippe’s veil, and I meant to do it. This last 
week I have said s for ¢ and ¢ for s more than 
fifteen times in French, and thirty times in Eng- 
lish. I have burned my shoes at the stove and 
made a bad smell in the schoolroom. It is my 
fault, my fault, my very great fault, etc. ) 





Such nonsense was not very impious; 
but we were severely reprimanded and pun- 
ished if Miss D found any com- 
positions of this kind. Mother Alippe 
pretended to be angry, inflicted some 
slight. punishment, and confiscated the 
papers, with which I suspect she sometimes 
amused the nuns in the work-room. 





64. Convent Life of George Sand. 


It does not take much to set a parcel of 
little girls laughing, and panic is as conta- 
gious as laughter. A timid child would 
scream at a spider, and then the whole class 
shrieked in concert, without knowing why. 
One evening at prayer-time, — I cannot tell 
what happened; no one ever found out. 
_ But one of the pupils screamed ; her neigh- 
bor jumped up, the next left her seat, and 
there was immediately a general stampede. 
We rushed out of the room, knocking down 
the chairs and candles, overturning the 
benches and tables, tumbling over one an- 
other as we fled along the cloisters, drag- 
ging with us the teachers, who screamed 
‘and ran just as we did. It was a whole 
hour before calm was restored, and an in- 
vestigation made; but no cause was ever 
discovered. 

In spite of all this feverish excitement, 
I suffered so much physically and morally . 
in the lower class that I remember the day 
when I entered the older girls’ schoolroom, 
and belonged there, as one of the happiest 
in my life. 

I have always been dependent on light, 
finding dark places depressing. The 
schoolroom for the second division was 


Convent Life of George Sand. 65 


spacious, with five or six large windows, 
almost all opening on the garden. It was 
warmed by a bright open fire, and a good 
stove. Then, too, it was early spring, and 
the great candelabras of the horse-chest- 
nuts were almost in bloom. It seemed like 
paradise. 

The presiding genius of the place, who 
went by the name of “the Countess,” was 
very much ridiculed by the girls. She was 
really very eccentric, and almost as absent- 
minded as Miss D ; but she was a good 
woman. Her own apartment on the ground 
floor, opening on a garden, was only separated 
from our domain by some beds of vegetables; 
so that from her window, when she was not 
on duty, she could see what we were about. 
But it interested her much more to watch 
from the schoolroom what was going on in - 
her own apartment. There at her window, 
or out in front at her door, lived, climbed, 
scratched, and screeched in the sunshine the 
only object of her idolatry, — a shabby-look- 
ing gray parrot, —an ill-natured old thing, 
constantly insulted and despised by the 
girls. We were very wrong to behave so, 
however, for we certainly owed a great 
deal to Jacquot. Thanks to him, the Coun- 

‘ | 





66 Convent Life of George Sand. 


tess often left us to our own devices. Perched 
on his stick, in full view from her seat in 
the schoolroom, Jacquot uttered piercing 
cries whenever he was not particularly 
amusing himself. The Countess would 
run directly to the window, and if a cat 
were seen prowling about near his perch, or 
if, tired of the sameness of life, the discon- 
tented bird had started off for a pleasure 
trip in the lilac-bushes, she forgot everything 
else, and rushed madly through the clois- 
ters across the garden, to reclaim, scold, and 
caress the dear delinquent. Meantime, we 
danced about on the tables, or, following 
Jacquot’s bad example, went off to amuse 
ourselves in garret or cellar. 

The Countess was forty or fifty years 
old, unmarried, of noble birth (as she con- 
stantly reminded us), and probably unedu- 
cated,— for she never gave any lessons, but 
was a sort of superintendent. Though she 
was undeniably tiresome and ridiculous, she 
was naturally kind, and perfectly respect- 
able. Yet some of us disliked her so much, ~ 
and treated her so badly, that we forced her 
to be severe at times. She was always kind © 
to me, and I am ashamed to say that I 
laughed with the others at her lofty airs, at 


Convent Life of George Sand. 67 


the black poke bonnet she never took off, 
at the green shawl constantly pulled up on 
her shoulders, and at her frequent lapses in 
speaking, — which we never allowed to pass 
unnoticed, and pitilessly reproduced in our 
own conversation. This mimicry delighted 
us, and she never found it out. I ought 
to have taken her part, for she often es- 
poused mine when I was in disgrace; but 
children are proverbially ungrateful. La 
Fontaine says, “ This age is pitiless.” The 
right to ridicule seems to it an inalienable 
right. 

Our second superintendent was a very 
austere nun, — Madame Anne Frances. She 
was aged, thin, and pale, witha great Roman 
nose; her strongly marked face was full of 
character, and she looked like an old Do- 
minican. She scolded a great deal, up- 
braided us too much, and was decidediy not 
a favorite. I neither liked nor disliked her, 
and she seemed indifferent to me, — though 
I never could see that she preferred any of 
the girls. We strongly suspected her of 
being philosophical, because she was so 
much interested in astronomy. In some 
ways she was very different from the other 
sisters. For instance, instead of commun- 


68 Convent Life of George Sand. 


ing, as they did, every day, she only ap- 
proached the sacraments on great festivals. 
Her reprimands never did us any good; 
they were nothing but threats, uttered in 
such bad French that it was hard not to 
laugh outright. She punished a great deal; 
and when she happened to be jocose, her 
pleasantries were coarse and offensive. She 
certainly was not devout,— not even pious 
for a nun. 

Our principal was Madame Eugénie, — 
a tall woman with a beautiful figure and 
noble bearing, very graceful and stately. 
Rosy and wrinkled, like most middle-aged 
nuns, her pretty face was disfigured by a 
haughty, almost scornful expression, that 
repelled one on first acquaintance. We 
found her more than strict, —severe, and 
sometimes caustic in her remarks; and she 
allowed herself to be so unduly influenced 
by her personal antipathies that she never 
became popular with the girls. Her man- 
ners were so cold and reserved that I never 
knew any one but myself with whom she 
had affectionate relations; but I was really 
fond of her, and this was the way our friend- 
ship originated. — | 

Three days after my promotion to the 


Convent Life of George Sand. 69° 





first class I happened to meet Miss D 
as I was going into the garden at recreation, 
and she looked at me savagely. I returned 
her stare with my habitual coolness. She 
had felt herself humiliated by my advance- 
ment, and was perfectly furious. 

“You are very lofty,” she said; “you do 
not even deign to speak to me.” 

“Good morning, madam. How do you 
do?” 3 

“You need not be so impertinent; I can 
make you feel who I am.” 

“T hope not, madam ; I have nothing 
more to do with you.’ 

“Wait and see!” and she walked away 
with a threatening gesture. 

It was the hour of recess; everybody was 
in the garden; and I took this opportunity 
of getting some copy-books that I had left 
in a closet adjoining the schoolroom. This 
closet (where they kept writing-desks, ink- 
stands, and large pitchers full of water for 
washing the floor) served also as a prison 
for the little ones, — Mary Eyre and Com- 
pany. I had been there a few minutes, 
trying to find my books, when Miss 
D suddenly speck before me like 
Tisiphone. 





“70 Convent Life of George Sand. 


“T am very glad to find you here,” she 
said. “ Now you shall ask my pardon for 
_ the impertinent way you looked at me just 
now.” 

“ No, madam,” I replied; “I was not im- 
pertinent, and I shall not ask your pardon.” 

“ Very well, then I shall punish you as I 
do the little girls; you shall stay shut up 
here till you change your mind.” 

“You have no right to do so; you haye 
no longer any authority over me.” 

“Try, then, and get out.” 

“Very well, I am going out now;” and 
taking advantage of her astonishment, I 
walked out of the closet. . 

Transported with rage, she rushed at me, 
grasped me in her arms, and pushed me in 
again. In all my life I never saw anything 
more repulsive than this pious fury. Half 
in fun and half in earnest, I kept her off 
and held her against the wall, — nothing 
more, — till I saw that she was going to strike 
me, and then I raised my clinched fist. She 
turned very pale; and when I felt that she 
was giving way, I contemptuously released 
her, satisfied with having shown my physi- 
cal and moral superiority. Taking advan- 
tage at once of my magnanimity, she re- — 


Convent Life of George Sand. 71 


turned to the charge and pushed me with 
all her might. My foot hit a great jug of 
water, that overturned as I fell into the 
closet, where Miss D locked me in, 
pouring out a volley of abuse. The situa- 
tion was not pleasant: I was literally in a 
cold bath, — for the closet was small and the 
pitcher enormous; the water came up to 
my ankles. But I could not help laughing 
when I heard her mutter: “ The perverse, 
miserable child! -She has made me so 
angry that I shall have to confess all over 
again. I have lost my absolution.” 

When she had gone, I gathered my wits 
together, climbed upon a shelf out of reach 
of the water, tore a blank leaf out of a copy- 
book, found pen and ink, and wrote a note 
to Madame Eugénie something like this: 





“ MADAME, —I recognize no authority but 
your own. Miss D has just shut me up by 
main force. Please come and let me out.” 





Then I waited for a messenger, and pres- 
ently one of the girls came to the school- 
room. Seeing me looking out of the tran- 
som, she was frightened, and turned to run 
away; but I called her back, and begged her 
to take my letter to Madame Eugénie, who 


72 Convent Life of George Sand. 


was in the garden. A few minutes after, 
Madame appeared, followed by Miss D : 
took me by the hand and led me away with- 
out saying a word. Miss D held her 
peace too. When I was alone in the clois- 
ter with Madame Eugénie, I threw my arms 
about her and kissed her affectionately. She 
was not given to caresses, and I had never 
seen any one kiss her before; but she was 
evidently not displeased with my impulsive 
action, and seemed affected by my warm 
embrace, — like a woman who does not know 
what it is to be loved, and yet yearns for 
affection. She questioned me skilfully; 
and without appearing to heed my answers 
particularly, she did not lose a word or an ex- 
pression of my face. Persuaded at last that 
I spoke the truth, she grasped my hand 
tenderly, and told me to go back to the 
garden. 

The Archbishop of Paris was coming in 
a few days to confirm some of the girls who 
had had their first communion but had not 
partaken of the sacrament. They were to 
make their “retreat” together in a room 
presided over by Miss D , who was also 
the reader, and made the religious exhorta- 
tions. That very day I was sent for as 











Convent Life of George Sand. 73 


one of the number, but she refused to re- 
ceive me, and ordered me to make my “ re- 
treat” in a room by myself somewhere. 

Then Madame Eugénie took my part 
openly. 

“Ts she so pestilential as that?” she said 
ironically. “Then she had better come to 
me in my cell.” 

She took me by the hand, and we went 
out, followed by Mother Alippe. While I 
made myself at home in the cell, the two 
nuns stayed outside in the corridor, and I 
overheard their conversation, which was 
carried on in English. Perhaps they did 
not know that I could understand them as 
well as I did. 

“ Tell me,” began Madame Eugénie, “ is 
this child really so abominable ? ” 

“ She is not abominable at all,” answered 
Mother Alippe. “She is a good enough 
child; that woman makes all the trouble. 
‘Tis true that she is a ‘diable,’ as they 
cali them. I see that makes you laugh; I 
have always understood that you have a 
weakness for ‘les diables.’” 

“Good!” said I to myself; “ that is worth 
remembering.” 

Madame Eugénie went on: “ But she is 


74 Convent Life of George Sand. 


~ such a wild child that perhaps she had 
better not be confirmed at present; she is 
hardly sober-minded enough. Wait till she 
has sown her wild oats; and meantime let 
us keep her out of the way of this woman, 
who owes her a grudge. You agree that 
the child belongs now to me, and that 
you have no longer any right to control 
her?” 

“No other right but that of Christian 
charity,” said Mother Alippe: “but don’t 
disturb yourself; Miss D is clearly in 
the wrong, and must stop where she is.” 

Then they went off,—as I supposed 
to find the Superior, explain the matter 
to her, and confer perhaps also with 
Miss D 

While I was awaiting their return, — 
safely ensconced in the cell of my protec- 
tress, — our dear sympathetic Poulette came 
in to console me. That was the name we 
children had given to the sister of Mother 
Alippe,— Madam Mary Austin, the treas- 
urer of the community. We idolized her; 
for not having any official relation with the 
pupils, and consequently no responsibility, 
she took it upon herself to spoil us contin- 
ually, — administering, however, a good-. 








Convent Life of George Sand. 75 


humored scolding now and then for our 
frolics. She kept a store of dainties that 
we could buy, and they were often given 
to the girls who were out of money, — 
opening accounts never closed by debtor 
or creditor. This kind soul had no gloom 
or austerity in her piety. Always gay, 
we hugged and kissed, even teased _ her, 
without ever making her angry. Now she 
came to comfort me in my misfortunes, 
with such ardent sympathy and exagger- 
ated sense of my wrongs that she might 
have done me harm if I had not really 
longed to live in peace with every one. 
After we had chatted an hour or more, 
the door opened, and who should come in 
but Miss D ! Evidently she had been 
taken to task by the Superior, or her con- 
fessor; for she was as sweet as honey, and 
I was stupefied by her novel, caressing 
ways. She announced that I was not to 
be confirmed before next year, because I 
was not thought to be in a proper frame of 
mind to receive the sacrament, — adding 
that Madame Eugenie was coming to tell 
me herself, but that she had obtained per- 
mission to do so, because she wanted to be 
reconciled,— to make her peace with me 





76 Convent Life of George Sand. 


before going into “retreat” with the other 
girls, Bt 
“Come, now,” she said; “acknowledge 
that you have been wrong, and give me 
your hand!” 

“Willingly,” I answered. “ ] will do any- 
thing that you ask kindly and pleasantly.” 

Then she kissed me. I did not like that; 
but the storm had blown over, and I never, 
had any trouble with her again. The next 
year, after my conversion, I made my “re- 
_ treat” under her auspices. She was very 
amiable, and complimented me on my 
change of heart. She read to us a great 
deal, explaining and commenting with a 
certain rude eloquence that was sometimes 
magnetic. At first her manner of read- 
ing seemed bombastic; but after a while it 
was impressive. -I remember nothing more 
about her from this time. I forgave her 
sincerely, and never regretted it; but I must 
say that we should have been infinitely 
better, and far happier, if the nuns had de- 
voted themselves to our education, instead 
of leaving it in the hands of such women. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 77 


TT, 


NE of the oldest nuns whom I remem- 

ber was Madame Anne Augustine. 

She was so aged and infirm that we used to 
say one had plenty of time to learn one’s 
lessons going upstairs behind her to recita- 
tion. She never spoke French, and had a 
very severe and solemn expression. I do 
not believe that she ever said a word to any 
one of us. The story ran that after a very 
serious illness she had to wear a silver 
stomach. This was a current convent tra- 
dition, and we were silly enough to accept 
and repeat it. We even persuaded our- 
selves sometimes that we could hear it 
click as she walked; and this old nun, 
mended with metal, who never spoke to us, 
who did not know the name of a single 
girl, and who gave us a startled look as we 
passed, became in our imaginations a very 
mysterious and rather a dreadful being. 
We trembled as we bowed to her. She 
returned our salutations silently, and passed 


i 
¢ on 


78 Convent Life of George Sand. 


on like a spectre. We used to declare that 
she must have died two hundred years be- 
fore, and that it was her ghost we saw keep- 
ing up the habit of walking about. 

Madame Marie Xavier was the most 
beautiful person in the convent, —tall, slight, 
and well-formed. She was always as white 
as a sheet, and as gloomy as the grave, —say- 
ing that she was very ill, and only hoped to 
die. She was the only nun I ever saw in 
despair because she had pronounced the 
final vows; but she made no secret of the 
fact, and passed her time in. sighs and tears. 
The law does not sanction such vows now- 
adays: but she did not dare, apparently, to 
break them, since she had solemnly sworn ; 
and while she was not philosophical enough . 
to do this, she was not pious enough to 
become resigned to her fate. Faltering, 
restless, and wretched, she seemed more im- 
passioned than loving; for she often gave 
way to fits of anger, as if utterly worn out 
and exasperated. We talked a great deal 
about her. Some of us thought that she 
had taken the veil on account of a disap- 
pointment, and that she still cared for her 
lover; others said that she hated him, 
and that her heart was full of rage and re- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 79 


sentment; while a few accused her of hav- 
ing an unhappy temper, and of chafing 
under the authority of the older nuns. Al- 
though it was all kept from us as much as 
possible, we could not help seeing that she 
lived apart, that the sisters seemed to con- 
demn her, and that she was on cool terms 
with all the others, whose dislike she re- 
turned. Yet she. communed daily, and 
remained, I believe, ten years in the con- 
vent. Not long after I went away I heard 
that she had broken her vows, and de- 
parted; but no one knew how it came to 
pass. What was the end of her sorrowful 
life? Did she find the object of her passion © 
free and repentant; or did she never really 
have a passion? Did she go back to the 
world, or enter another convent, to end her 
days in penitence and mourning; or did 
she die of a broken heart? None of us 
ever knew. The sisters explained her ab- 
sence, saying that the doctors declared that 
she must live in a different climate and 
change her manner of life; but it was easy 
to see, by their constrained smiles, that 
there was a mystery about it. | 
Another beautiful girl,— Miss Croft, — 
who entered as a postulant while I was at 


80 Convent Life of George Sand. 


the convent, after my departure followed 
the example of Madame Marie Xavier, and 
left the community, — before taking the 
black veil, however. 

Miss Hurst—who took the final vows 
during my stay,and who did it very deliber- 
ately, without repenting afterwards — was 
my English teacher, and I passed an hour 
every day in hercell. She explained all the 
difficulties of the language clearly and pa- 
tiently, and I became very fond of her, — 
with reason, for she was extremely kind to 
me, even when I was a “diable.” Her con- 
vent name was Maria Winifred; and I 
never read Shakespeare or Byron in the 
original without thanking her in my heart. 

Sister Anne Joseph was the gentlest and 
most affectionate little creature that ever 
breathed, — without a particle of English 
stiffness or Roman Catholic caution. She 
was always kissing us, and calling us by the 
most endearing names; but her talk was as 
incoherent as her ideas, and she chattered 
away without really saying anything. It 
may be that she had so much to say that 
she could not express it, even in her own 
language. There did not seem to be so 
much absence, as utter confusion of ideas. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 81 


Her thoughts got ahead of her speech; and 
then she used the wrong word, or left a 
phrase unfinished, so that you had to guess 
the end while she was rattling on with an- 
other. Her actions were like her talk; 
she tried to do forty things at once, and 
naturally never did one well. Her gentle- 
ness and sweet temper seemed to fit her 
for the place she had in the infirmary ; but 
unfortunately, when she was flurried she 
could not tell her right hand from her left, 
or doses of medicine from outward applica- 
tions, and made sad confusion with patients 
and prescriptions. Ina great hurry to get 
something in the pharmacy, she would run 
upstairs when she should have run down, 
and vzce versa. Her whole life was passed in 
trying to correct her mistakes. “As good 
as an angel and as silly as a goose,” they 
used to say of her; and I sometimes thought 
’ that the other nuns were needlessly severe, 
and laughed too much at her misfortunes. 
Once she complained of having rats in her 
cell, and was told that they must have come 
out of her own brain. When she had done 
something hopelessly absurd she would get 
completely bewildered, and shed tears in 


despair. Poor little Sister Anne Joseph! 
6 


> as 


82 Convent Life of George Sand. 


You did well in your trouble to turn to 
God, who never rejects the offering of a 
loving heart; and I thank him for enabling 
me to feel the beauty of your perfect sim- 
plicity and tenderness! Scorn such if you 
will, — you who often find unselfish good- 
ness like hers in the world! 

I have kept the nun whom I loved most 
dearly for the last picture in this portrait 
gallery. Madame Marie Alicia was the 
best, the most attractive, and the most in- 
telligent of all the women, old and young, 
who inhabited this English Augustinian 
convent. When I first knew her, she could 
not have been thirty years old; and she was 
still very handsome, though her mouth was 
rather small, and her nose too large. 
But those great blue eyes, with their long 
black lashes, were more tender, more lim- 
pid, and more truthful than any other eyes 
I ever saw in my life. In them all her 
generous, candid, motherly soul, — all her 
pure, lofty aspirations, —lay mirrored. In 
mystic language they might have been 
called “wells of purity.” Even now, when 
I awake in the night from some _ bad 
dream, — that haunts me even when wide 
awake, —I recall Madame Alicia’s eyes; 


Convent Life of George Sand. 83 


and their pure rays always put the phan- 
toms to flight. It is no affectionate exag- 
geration to say that there was something 
ideal about her. She made the same im- 
pression on persons who only saw _ her 
for an instant behind the grating, or who 
knew her slightly in the convent. They 
always felt for her instinctively the sympa- 
thy and respect inspired by the chosen few. 
Religion may have rendered her humble ; 
but nature made her modest, and endowed 
her with all the virtues, charms, and noble 
qualities that her enlightened conception 
of Christianity only served to develop and 
strengthen. Incoming in contact with her, 
one felt that there was no inward struggle in 
her life, and that she naturally tended to all 
that was good and beautiful. Everything 
about her was harmonious; her figure was 
grace and majesty combined, under her robe 
and wimple. Her hands were lovely, — with 
tapering, rounded fingers, finely formed, in 
spite of a slight rheumatic stiffness of the 
joints, that was not always perceptible. Her 
voice was musical, and her enunciation ex- 
quisitely modulated and distinct, in English 
as well as in French, —for she spoke both 
languages perfectly. Born in France, of a 


84 Convent Life of George Sand. 


French mother and English father, she 
united the finest qualities of the two races, 
that seemed to constitute in her a perfect 
being. She had the dignified bearing, with- 
out the stiffness, of an Englishwoman, and 
there was no tinge of harshness in her re- 
ligious austerity. When she reproved us, 
in a few well-chosen, simple words, we felt 
convicted. _ Her reproaches sank into our 
hearts, but were always accompanied by 
such hopeful encouragement, that we were 
humbled and subdued, without being in the 
least hurt, offended, or humiliated. We 
respected her for her sincerity, and loved 
her all the more because, with the sense of 
being unworthy of her friendship, there 
dawned the hope of some day deserving 
it; and this hope tended to become its own 
fulfilment. 

Some of the nuns had daughters — one or 
more at a time—among the pupils; that 
is to say, at the request of the parents, or 
the child herself, with the permission of 
the Superior, there was a sort of maternal 
oversight. This adoption consisted in at- 
tention to physical or spiritual welfare, and 
in administering encouragement, or tender 
or severe rebuke, as the case might require. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 85 


The daughters were allowed to go to their 
mother’s cell, to ask her advice and _pro- 
tection if needed, to take tea with her some- 
times in the nuns’ workroom, to give her 
some little present made by themselves, on 
her birthday,—to love her, in short, and 
to tell her that they loved her. Many 
aspired to be the daughter of Poulette or 
Mother Alippe. Madame Marie Xavier had 
several children; and not a few were very 
anxious to be adopted by Madame Alicia. 
But she was chary of such a favor. As 
secretary of the community, with all the 
Superior’s office work to attend to, she 
had little leisure, and was often very tired. 
She had cherished one beloved daughter, — 
Louise de Courteilles, — who had gone 
away,and no one had dared to hope to fill 
her place; but I was audacious enough 
to entertain this idea, in my unsuspecting, 
childish simplicity. All the girls about 
me adored Madame Alicia, but did not 
venture to tell her of their devotion; but 
I went directly to her, without an idea of 
presumption. 

“You?” said she, after hearing what I 
had to say,— “you, the naughtiest girl in 
the convent? Do you wish to make me 


see 


86 Convent Life of George Sand. 


do penance? What harm have I ever done 
you, to put it into your head to come to 
me and ask to be taken care of? Such an 
‘enfant terrible’ as you, in the place of my 
good Louise,— that sweet, gentle child! 
You are either crazy, or else you bear me 
some grudge.” 

“Oh, no!” said I, without being at all . 
disconcerted; “but won’t you please to 
try? Who knows? — perhaps I may mend 
my ways, and become delightful jue to 
please you.” 

“ Ah,” said she; “if that is it, — if it is 
with an idea of improving you that I must 
undertake this task, perhaps I may make 
up my mind to try the experiment; but 
as a means of saving my soul, I should 
have preferred some easier way.” 

“But an angel like Louise could not — 
help save your soul,” I argued. “There 
was no merit in taking care of her, and 
there will be a great deal in taking care 
of me.” | 

“ But suppose that with all the pains I 
take, I do not succeed in making you good 
and pious,— what then? Will you faith- 
fully promise to help me yourself all you 
can?” 


Convent Life of George Sand. 87 


“T can't say,” I answered. “I do not 
know yet what I really am, or what I want 
to be. I only know that I love you dearly ; 
and I rather think that, whether I am good 
or bad, you will love me too.” 

“Tsee, Aurora, that you have a very good 
opinion of yourself.” 

“Oh, no; but I do need a mother. Be 
mine, in your own way; I am sure that you 
will do me good. You see I ask you to 
do it in my own interest, without any pre- 
tence. Come, dear mother, say ‘Yes. I 
warn you that I have already asked permis- 
sion of my grandmother and the Superior, 
and that both of them mean to speak to 
you about it.” 

Madame Alicia then consented, and my 
astonished companions exclaimed, when I 
told them: “ You are fortunate! You are 
just as bad as you can be; you are always 
in some mischief or other; and yet Madame 
Eugénie takes you under her wing, and 
now Madame Alicia loves you. What 
luck !” 

“Yes, that is so,” I answered, with the 
nonchalant fatuity of a careless child. 

My affection, however, for this admirable 
woman, struck deeper roots than either of 


88 Convent Life of George Sand. 


us knew. In spite of what seemed my 
careless idleness, I had times of revery, and 
-even of discontented reflection, — which, 
however, I kept to myself. Sometimes I was 
so depressed, while committing the wildest 
extravagances, that I was forced to say I 
was in pain, to keep from breaking down. 
My-English companions would laugh, and 
say, “ How low-spirited you are to-day!” 
and when I was dejected,—%in “a_ green 
and yellow melancholy,” — Isabella would 
exclaim, “She is in the dumps, the absent- 
minded creature!” and then she would 
make such a caricature of me that I could 
not help laughing. Nevertheless I kept 
my own secret. Certainly, if I had had 
more strength of will, more initiative, I 
should not have been a “diable” so long. 
If any of the others had proposed to give 
up our misdemeanors, I should have acceded 
at once; but I loved them, and they made 
me laugh; and diverted me from my sad 
thoughts. 

Five minutes, though, with Madame Ali- 
cia did me a great deal more good ; because 
in her severity I discerned — whether it 
was friendship or Christian charity —a real 
interest that made me happier with her 


Convent Life of George Sand. 89 


than I was with my young companions. 
If I could have divided my time between 
the work-room and my dear mother’s cell, 
in three days I should have been at a loss 
to understand what amusement there could 
be in climbing over roofs or exploring dark 
cellars. I had needed to love and vener- 
ate some one superior to myself, and I had 
found such a person in Madame Alicia, 
She was my ideal, — my holy mother. 
When I had been a “diable” all day, I 
would slip into my mother’s cell at evening 
after prayers. That was one of my privi- 
leges as an adopted child. Prayers were 
over at half-past eight. We went upstairs to 
the dormitory, and saw in the long corridors 
the nuns marching two by two on their 
way to their cells, chanting Latin prayers 
as they went along. Stopping before a 
figure of the Virgin on the upper landing, 
after several verses and responses they sep- 
arated for the night, and each one entered 
her cell without speaking; for between 
prayers and sleep, silence was imposed. 
They, however, who were in attendance on - 
the sick, or who had adopted daughters, 
were not subject to this regulation; and I 
had a right to go and see my mother for a 


90 ~©=—-—s Convent Life of George Sand. 


quarter of an hour between a quarter to 
nine and nine o'clock. When the great 
clock struck nine, her light must be put out, 
and I must go back to my dormitory: so 
that I only had five or six minutes .some- 
_times, and even those were divided between 
me and attention to the demi-semi-quarters 
of the old clock ; for Madame Alicia was too 
scrupulous to infringe upon the regulation, 
even for a second. 

“Well,” she would say, opening her door, 
at which I scratched to be let in, “so here 
comes my torment!” That was what she 
always called me; but her tone was so 
sweet and cordial, her smile so tender, and 
her expression so friendly, that I knew I 
was welcome. 

“ Well, what news have you to tell me? 
Have you been good to-day by accident? 
No! but I see no night-cap.” (That penal 
head-dress had become almost chronic.) 

“T have only worn it two hours this 
evening.” : 

“ Ah! that_is very well; and how was it 
this morning ? ” 

“T had it on in church, and I got be- 
hind the others so that you should not 
see me.” "a 


Convent Life of George Sand. gt 


“You need not do that; I hardly ever 
look at you, for fear of seeing that odious 
night-cap: and you will probably have it on 
again to-morrow?” 

_ “Yes, I suppose so.” ~ 

“ Don’t you mean ever to improve ?” 

LUCaly tiyee 

“ Then what do you come here for?” 

“To see you, and to be scolded.” 

“That amuses you, then?” 

“No; it does me good.” 2 

“TI do not see that it does you the least 
good, and it does me harm; it troubles me, 
you naughty child! ” 

“So much the better!” I exclaimed. 
“ That shows that you love me.” 

“And that you do not love me,” she 
rejoined. : 

Then she gave me a good scolding. I 
liked to hear her, and listened with the 
greatest attention, as if I had resolved at 
last to amend my ways; but I had no defi- 
nite plan of doing so. 

“Come,” said she, “you are going to act 
differently, I hope. You must be tired of 
this foolish behavior. Listen to the voice 
of God in your soul.” 

“Do you often pray to God for me?” 


3 92 Convent Life of George Sand. 


“Yes, often.” 

“ Every day?” 

“ Yes, every day.” 

“ Now you see, madame, that if I were 
good, you would not love me so much; I 
should be less in your thoughts.” 

She could not help laughing at this; for 
she had all the natural gayety inseparable 
from a heart at rest and a quiet conscience. 
Then she would take me by the shoulders 
and give me a good shaking,—as if to 
shake the Evil One out of me,—and put 
me out of the door just as the clock struck 
_ nine, laughing merrily. I would go up to 

the dormitory lighter-hearted, carrying with 
me the subtile influence of the serenity and 
frankness of her beautiful soul. But I 


shall have more to say of my dear Madame 
Alicia. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 93 


VIII. 


HERE were four lay sisters in the 

convent, but I only remember two 

distinctly, — Sister Theresa and Sister 
Helen. 

The former — who had christened me 
“ Madcap” — was a tall old woman of an 
excellent type. Gay, rough, but kindness 
itself, she liked to laugh at us. She was 
a strong, active, raw-boned Scotchwoman, — 
sending us away often in a manner that 
showed she wanted us to come back, — 
amused with the tricks we played, but using 
her broomstick freely upon occasion. She 
liked “les diables,” was not a bit afraid of 
them, and laughed loudér than any one at 
our pranks, 

Sister Theresa knew how to distil the 
mint-water for which our convent was fa- 
mous. The mint was cultivated in great 
‘quantities in the nuns’ garden. Three or 
four times a year it was mown, and heaped 
in a great cellar used as a laboratory. 


94 Convent Life of George Sand. 


This cellar was directly under our large 
schoolroom, and a wide staircase led to it, 
so that it was naturally one of our first 
halts when we started on an expedition; 
but when Sister Theresa was away the lab- 
oratory was carefully locked up, and when 
she was there we could not, caper about 
among all her retorts and,alembics. At 
such times we would stand at the open 
door and try to tease her; but she never 
seemed to mind. 

However, by persistent efforts, I suc- 
ceeded at last in getting a foothold in the 
sanctuary. For a long time I had only 
reconnoitred, but now I enjoyed watching 
her. All alone in the vast cellar, a strong 
light falling from above on her violet dress, 
coarse black veil, and_ strongly-marked, 
weather-beaten face, — she looked like one 
of Macbeth’s witches stooping over the fire. 
Then again she would sit as still as a 
statue, close to the alembic, watching the 
precious fluid as it distilled drop by drop; 
or she would read the Bible to herself, and 
repeat her prayers in a hoarse, monotonous 
voice,—as beautiful in her old age as a 
portrait by Rembrandt. 

One day when Sister Theresa was ab- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 95, 


sorbed in her work, or fast asleep, I stole in 
on tip-toe; and she did not know I was 
there, till I was standing triumphant in the 
midst of her fragile apparatus. Then she 
was obliged to capitulate and satisfy my 
curiosity. From that time she took a 
fancy to me, and often let me come in. She 
found that I was not clumsy, and would 
not break anything ; moreover, she seemed 
amused with my lounging about, and though 
she often said that I ought to go back to 
the schoolroom, she never put me out by 
force, as she did some of the others. The 
smell of the mint gave her a headache, and 
its emanations hurt her eyes; therefore she 
liked to have me help her to spread and turn 
her fragrant harvest; and on summer days, 
when the heat became suffocating in the 
schoolroom, I delighted in taking refuge 
in this cool cellar, where the strong pemins 
revived me. 

The other lay sister— Sister Helen — was 
the maid-of-all-work of the convent, making 
the beds, sweeping the church, etc. She 
became afterwards more dear to me than 
any one save Madame Alicia; but I was a 
long time without noticing her. The two 
other Jay sisters did the cooking. Thus 


95 Convent Life of George Sond, | 


there was an aristocracy and a democracy 
in the convent, as in the world. The choir 
sisters lived like patricians ; their robes were 
white, and they wore fine linen, while the lay 
-_ sisters worked hard, and their dark clothing 
was of a much coarser kind. They were 
women from the lower orders, uneducated ; 
and they were unavoidably much less ab- 
sorbed in ritual and devotions than in the 
household occupations of this great estab- 
lishment. There were too few of them, 
however, to do all the work, and it became 
necessary to reinforce them by lay servants. 

Upon the whole, it was a genial family 
of women. I do not remember one dis- 
agreeable girl; and with. the exception of 
my experience with Miss D , I met 
with nothing but kindness and forbearance 
from nuns and teachers. It is impossible 
not to cherish .the memory of the most 
tranquil, if not the happiest years of my life. 
Of course there was physical as well as 
moral suffering; but never, before nor 
- since, have I had so little reason to com- 
plain of others, 





Convent Life of George Sand. 97 


IX. 


Wd ee first grief after I entered the upper 

class was the departure of Isabella, 
whose parents took her away to travel in 
Switzerland. She left us, delighted at the 
prospect of such a journey, — regretting no 
one, apparently, but Sophia, and paying 
very little attention to my woe. That hurt 
my feelings. I loved Sophia too, and was 
doubly jealous, — in the first place, because 
she preferred Isabella to me; and then 
because Isabella liked her better... For 
some days I was in great affliction; but 
when I saw how much Sophia missed her 
friend, I begged her to let me sympathize 
with her sorrow. Though she seemed at 
first to care little for my efforts at consola- 
tion, I entreated her very humbly to be as 
miserable as she liked when she was with 
me, and to talk of Isabella to her heart’s con- 
tent, without fearing to weary my patience 
and affection. Then Sophia exclaimed, 
throwing her arms around my neck, — 

7 


98 Convent Life of George Sand. 

“T wonder why Isabella and I have al- 
ways treated you as if you were a little 
child! You have so much feeling! and I 
‘want you to be my real friend; only you 
must always let me love Isabella the best. 
She comes first; but after her, I am sure I 
love you better than any one else here.” ~ 

I joyfully accepted the second place, and 
became from this moment Sophia’s insepa- 
rable companion. She was always lovely 
and engaging, but I must acknowledge 
that I was the more devoted and enthusi- 
astic of the two; for, exclusive by nature, 
she could not well divide her affection. 
Sometimes I accused her of ingratitude ; 
then I felt that I was wrong; and without 
neglecting her, opened my heart to other 
friendships. 

Mary had gone to England to stay a 
short time. My grief was not very. great. 
because I had seen very little of her since 
I left the lower class, and I thought that 
on her return she would be promoted also; 
but after a prolonged absence, she came 
back to the lower division. 

A new friendship now absorbed and 
consoled me; for I found Fanelly de 
Brissac the most loving of all my school 


\ 
Convent Life of George Sand. 99 


companions. She was a little blonde, as 
fresh as a rose, —with such an animated, ° 
frank, kind face, that it did one good to 
look at her. Her beautiful light hair fell in 
curls over her blue eyes and plump cheeks ; 
and as she was always in motion, running 
when most girls walked, and bounding 
like a ball when others ran, the perpetual 
undulation of her golden tresses was a de- . 
light to the eyes. Her red lips were al- 
ways parted with a smile; and, being a 
native of Nérac, she spoke French with 
the most bewitching little Gascon accent. 
- Her horizontal eyebrows almost met above 
her nose, and her radiant eyes sparkled 
like stars. She was always doing or plan- 
ning something, chattering all the time, 
and constantly on the wing like a butterfly. 
Ardent, loving, sunny-tempered, she was a _ 
perfect southern type,—the sweetest and 
most engaging companion I ever had. She 
loved me first, and told me so frankly, with- 
out waiting to see how I would receive her 
advances ; but I responded at once heartily, 
without stopping to think. My good star 
evidently presided over this impulse, for I 
found in her a perfect treasure of sweét- 
ness, — the gentleness of an angel with the 


200 Convent Life of George Sand. 


vivacity of a sprite. She possessed such 
buoyancy of physical and moral health, 
such inexhaustible kindness, such eager, 
active, ingenious endeavors to make people 
happy about her, such unfailing and in- 
stinctive generosity, as made a rare union 
of qualities, — a character perfectly reliable, 
without a single flaw. Any one seeing 
her so gay and volatile, with her hair all 
flying about her face, might have sup- 
posed she was thoughtless ; while in reality 
she was always thinking of others, living in 
the affection she had for them and the 
hope of contributing to their pleasure. I 
can see her now entering the schoolroom 
(she was constantly going in and out), peer- 


ing right and left to find me, — for in 
spite of her beautiful eyes she was near- 
sighted. 


“Where is my aunt?” she would say 
(the name by which she called me). “ What 
have you done with my aunt? Young 
ladies, young ladies, who has seen my 
aunt?” 

“Here I am,” I would say. “Come and 
sit by me.” : 

“ That is right; you have kept my place. 
Good! now we shall have a fine time. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 101 


What is the matter, auntie? You look 
troubled. Tell me what is the matter. 
Nothing? Well, then, laugh. Are you 
getting tired? Yes, that is so. Come, let us 
go off; I have found something delightful.” 

And she would take me to the garden or 
the cloisters in search of amusement; or 
perhaps she had prepared some surprise. 
In her society it was not possible to be sad 
or dreamy; and, strange to say, her per- 
petual motion was never wearisome. She 
took possession of her companion, and one 
never regretted yielding to her charm. For 
me she was health and strength, for body 
and soul. 

We had itn the convent a childish notion 
of respecting the. priority of friendship, 
and we exacted it of one another. Weused 
to make out a list of our intimates in regu- 
lar succession; and the initials of the four 
or five favorite names decorated, like heral- 
dic devices, the walls, our copy-books, and 
the tops of our desks. When the first 
place had been once taken, we had no 
right to give it to another; priority was 
an obligation. Thus my list, while I was 
in the upper class, always consisted of 
Isabella Clifford at the head; then came 


102 Convent Life of George Sand. 


Sophia Cary; Fanelly could only have the 
third place, although I loved her more than 
- the others, and she had no friend but me. 
She accepted, however, without pain or 
jealousy, this inferior rank. After her came 
Anna Vié, who took the fourth place; and 
for a year I had no other intimacies. The 
name of Madame Alicia, however, crowned 
the list; and she was placed above them all, 
alone. The initials of my four compan- 
ions formed the word “1sra,” which I wrote 
on everything that belonged to me, like a 
cabalistic formula. Sometimes it was sur- 
rounded by a halo of little a@’s, to show 
that Alicia filled all the rest of my heart. 
How often Madame Eugénie, — who, even 
with her poor eyes, saw everything, — in 
examining our papers, puzzled herself over 
this mysterious word! Since we all had 
a logogriph of some kind, she was in- 
clined to think it must be a sort of cipher, 
in which we were conspiring against her 
authority; but when she questioned us, we 
all said that it was a word we used to try 
our pens. Mystery is so delightful, — es- 
pecially when the secret is transparent! 
Anna Vié, my fourth letter, was very in- 
telligent, gay, fond of mischief and ridicule, 


Convent Life of George Sand. 103 


—the wittiest girl in school and the most 
amusing. Poor, and unprepossessing in 
appearance, we loved her all the more for 
these two disadvantages, of which she was 
always making fun herself. She was an 
orphan, under the care of an old Greek 
uncle, whom she hardly knew, and of whom. 
she was very much afraid. A _ leader 
among “les diables,’ very high-tempered, 
and dreaded on account of her sharp 
tongue, she had, nevertheless, a noble, gen- 
erous heart. Her sparkling gayety masked 
a great deal of real bitterness ; but the future 
that she dreaded, her wit that made _ her 
more feared than loved by most of the girls » 
her poor little shabby black gowns, her 
small undeveloped figure, her yellow, bil- 
ious complexion, her queer little eyes, all 
were for her subjects of constant jest and 
ceaseless pain. Some said she was envious 
of others’ advantages; but it was not so. 
She had excellent good sense; there was 
no meanness about her; and when she 
became intimate enough with us not to 
laugh at us or with us all the time, she 
excited our sympathy by her reticent un- 
happiness. We talked a great deal about 
a favorite project of mine, — of taking her 


- 


4 


104 Convent Life of George Sand. 


to Nohant to live. My grandmother con- 
sented, but Anna’s uncle vetoed the plan. 
For nearly a year, Sophia, Fanelly, Anna, 
and I were inseparable. I was the connect- 
ing link; for till Sophia accepted me for her 
second friend, and the two others had given 
_ me the first place, they had had little to do 
with one another. Our intimacy was un- 
clouded, though it pained me sometimes 
that Sophia felt herself obliged to love the 
absent Isabella more than me; and then I 
thought it my bounden duty to love the ab- 
sent Teale and indifferent Sophia more 
than Fanelly and Anna, who adored me 
without any reserve. But that was the rule, 
the law; if we had disturbed the order of 
the list, we should have thought ourselves 
guilty of the most reprehensible fickleness. 
However, I must say that in spite of all, 
I knew that I loved Fanelly more than all 
the others; and I often told her, very illogi- 
cally, that by my will she was the third 
on the list, but that against my will she 
was my best, perhaps my only real, friend. 
Then she would answer, laughingly, “ What 


difference does that make, whether I am ~ 


the third or not, so long as you love me as 
much as I love you? That is all I ask of 


Convent Life of George Sand. 105 


my aunt. I am not too proud to love all 
the girls you are fond of.” 

After some months Isabella came back 
from Switzerland, but only to say good- 
by; she was now to live in England. I was 
in great affliction, —all the more because, 
engrossed by Sophia, who absorbed all her 
attention, she hardly took any notice of 
me, except to turn round and say, “ What 
makes that child cry so?” That was. the 
“unkindest cut of all;” but when Sophia 
told her that I had been her comforter, and 
that she had adopted me as her second 
friend, Isabella condescended to console me, 
and even invited me to join them in their 
walk. She made one more appearance 
among us, and then went away. I heard 
that she married a very wealthy man, but 
I never saw her again. 

A year, indeed nearly eighteen months, 
slipped byalmost unconsciously, and I wasstill 
a‘“diable.” Sophia and Anna often declared 
that they were tired to death of the convent; 
and whether because it was the fashion, or 
because they were really sick of this life, 
all my companions said the same thing. 
Those who were devout thought it wrong - 
to complain; but they did not seem happy. 


106 Convent Life of George Sand. 


Most of these children probably regretted 
pleasant homes; and those who had none — 
Anna Vié, for instance —did nothing but 
dream of balls and parties, of travelling, 
of all sorts of delights consistent with free- 
dom and incompatible with regular, serious 
occupation. Seclusion and the monotony 
of a studious life seem in fact to be par- 
ticularly distasteful to young girls. 

I was happier, however, in the convent 
than anywhere else: no one there’ was 
sufficiently well acquainted with my past 
life to talk of what I must expect in the 
future; and that is what one’s relatives al- 
ways have in view. It is their tender care, 
their constant preoccupation. They try to 
make your future secure; and then some- 
how fate foils all their plans. Moreover, 
children seldom profit by their parents’ ad- 
vice; their instinctive independence and 
curiosity constantly excite them to opposi- 
tion. Nuns have not the same kind of 
solicitude for the children under their care; 
they think of nothing but heaven and hell, - 
and for them the girl’s future is her soul’s 
salvation. ; 

Even before my conversion, this spiritual 
future had no terrors for me. Since, ac- 


4 


Convent Life of George Sand. 107 


cording to the Catholic religion, one can 
choose between salvation and _ perdition ; 
since grace abounds, and our own free 
will may set our feet in the path where 
the angels themselves deign to guide us, 
I used to say to myself in my vainglorious 
self-reliance that I should attend to that 
one of these days; but I was in no haste 
to do so. I had never worried a great 
deal about myself, —certainly not in mat- 
ters of religion. I wanted to love God for 
the sake of loving him; I did not want 
to be afraid of him, and I always said so 
when others tried to frighten me. 

Thus thoughtlessly, without anxiety about 
this life or the one to come, I let the days 
slip by, only thinking of my own amuse- 
ment, — or rather not thinking about any- 
thing at all.— always ready to go in search 
of pleasure with my friends. Anna liked 
to talk to me, and I loved to listen to her. 
Sophia was dreamy and sad; I followed her 
about silently, not disturbing her medita- 
tions, and never upbraiding her when she 
shook off her ‘lethargy. Fanelly loved ex- 
citement, was always gay, ferreting about 
or setting on foot some mischief or other. 
With her I was full of fun, ardor, and motion. 


108 Convent Life of George Sand. 


Fortunately, she liked to take the lead. 
Anna followed us from affection, and 
Sophia because she had nothing else to do; 
thus we spent whole days deep in mis- 


chief. Sometimes we planned to meet in ~ 
an out-of-the-way place, where Fanelly, who ° 


had more money than either of us, and who 
knew besides how to cajole the old porter 
into buying everything she wanted, had 
prepared some delightful surprise, gener- 
ally something good to eat, — magnificent 
melons, cakes, baskets of cherries or grapes, 
fritters, Aa¢és, — all sorts of things; she was 
marvellously ingenious in regaling us with 
the most unexpected dainties. 

For a whole summer we almost lived on 
the fruit of this smuggling. What a diet! 
Any one over fifteen would have had a fit 
of sickness in consequence. I contributed 
to these “treats” the dainties given me by 
Mother Alicia and also by Sister Theresa, 
who used to make in her laboratory the most 
delicious things, with which she stuffed 
my pockets. To share these treasures, and 
feast secretly between meals, against the 
rules, was a delight, a high festival, — and we 
indulged in fits of laughter over rather vul- 
gar pranks, such as tossing up to the ceiling 


Convent Life of George Sand. 109 


the bottom ofa pie filled with sweetmeats, 
and seeing it stick; hiding chicken bones in 
a piano, or dropping fruit-parings on dark 
staircases so as to make solemn persons 
slip. All that seemed to us very witty, in- 
toxicated as we were with our own merri- 
ment, and with nothing else, — for we never 
had anything to drink on these occasions but 
water and lemonade. The search for the 
victim was kept up, checked from time to 
time by some great disappointment. 


~ 


110 Convent Life of George Sand. 


X. 


S° far as studies were concerned, I did 

nothing but learn a little —a very little 
— Italian, music, and drawing. I readily ap- 
plied myself to nothing but English; and I 
did this because one lost half the pleasure 
of life in the convent, if one did not under- 
stand that language. 

I also began to want to write. It was 
the fashion ; those who had no inspiration 
wrote letters to one another, often charm- 
ing in their tenderness and simplicity. This 
correspondence was contrary to the rules; 
but that only made it more interesting, 
That, and other severe restrictions — pro- 
hibition of kisses, insisting that there 
should always be three instead of two to- 
gether — seemed to me a great error in the 
system of convent education. Most of us, 
however, brought up in our own families, 
attributed these rules to a desire to restrain 
human affection, which should be devoted 
exclusively to the Creator. | 


Convent Life of George Sand. 111 


I began of course, by writing verses, 
rebelling against the Alexandrine, which I 
understood, however, perfectly. I tried to 
preserve a sort of rhythm without attending 
to the rhyme or the cesura, and composed 
many verses that had a great success among 
the girls, who were not very critical. At 
last I took it into my head to write a novel ; 
and though I was not at all religious at that 
time, I made my story very pious and edify- 
ing. It was more of a tale, however, than a 
novel. The hero and heroine met in the 
dusk of evening, in the country, at the foot 
of a shrine, where they had come to say 
their prayers. They admired and exhort- 
ed each other by turns. I knew that they 
ought to fall in love, but I could not man- 
age it. Sophia urged me on; but when I 
had described them both as beautiful and 
perfect beings, when I had brought them 
together in an enchanting spot at the en- 
trance of a Gothic chapel under the shade 
of lofty oaks, I never could get any further. 
It was not possible for me to describe the 
emotions of Jove; I. had not a word to say, 
and gave it up. I succeeded in making. 
them ardently pious, — not that I knew any 
more about piety than I did about love; 


‘ 
— 


112 Convent Life of George Sand. 


but I had examples of piety all the time be- 
fore my eyes, and perhaps even then the 
germ was unconsciously developing within 
me. At all events, my young couple, after 
several chapters of travel and adventure 
that I have completely forgotten, separated 
at last, both consecrating themselves to 
God, —the heroine taking the veil, and the 
hero becoming a priest. 

Sophia and Anna thought my novel very 
well written, and they liked some things 
about it; but they declared that the hero 
(who rejoiced, by the way, in the name of 
Fitzgerald) was dreadfully tiresome, and 
they did not seem to consider the heroine 
much more amusing. There was a mother 
whom they liked better; but upon the 
whole my prose was less successful than 
my verses, and I was not much charmed 
with it myself. 

Then I wrote a pastoral romance in 
verse, still worse than the novel; and one 
winter day I put it into the stove. Then 
I stopped writing, and decided that it was 
not an amusing occupation, though I had 
taken infinite delight in the preliminary 
composition. | 

In the middle of my second year in the * 


Convent Life of George Sand. 113 


convent my grandmother came back to 
Paris, and I was allowed to go out several 
times. She did not think me improved 
in appearance or manners, and said that I 
was more absent-minded than ever. The 
dancing-lessons of M. Abraham — a former 
teacher of Marie Antoinette—had not made 
me graceful, though he had done his best. 
He used to come in court dress, black silk 
stockings, and knee-breeches, with buckled 
shoes, a powdered wig with a queue, a 
diamond ring on his finger, and a violin in 
his hand. He was about eighty, but had a 
slender, graceful, even elegant figure, deli- 
cate features, and a pleasant, wrinkled face, 
all veined in red and blue on a yellow back- 
ground, like an autumn leaf. He was an 
excellent man, polite, solemn, distinguished, 
the very pink of propriety. He gave his 
lessons in the Superior’s large parlor, to 
about fifteen girls at a time; and on this 
occasion we were all outside the grating. 
After some geometrical illustrations of 
grace, and drill in the customary dancing- 
steps, he would seat himself in an arm- 
chair, and say: “ Now, young ladies, I am 
the King or Queen, as the case may be; andas 


you will all doubtless be presented at court, 
8 


114 Convent Life of George Sand. 


let us practise the way of entering the room, 
and also of retiring after the presentation, 
with the appropriate courtesies.” At other 
times we practised less thrilling solemnities, 
imagining a drawing-room filled with guests. 
He made some of us sit down, while others 
entered or took their leave; and he taught 
us how to speak to the mistress of the 
house, then to a princess, duchess, mar- 
chioness, countess, viscountess, baroness, 
and lady presiding, each with the measure of 
respect due to her rank. Then he took by 
turns the part of a prince, duke, marquis, 
etc., and came to speak to us in that — 
character, so that we might learn to re- 
spond properly. We had to put on and 
take off our gloves, use a fan, smile, get up 
and sit down, cross the room,—#in short 
do everything imaginable. It seemed as 
if in this antiquated French _ politeness 
everything must be done by rule,—even 
sneezing. - 

We were all ready to burst out laughing, 
and made no end of intentional mistakes to 
exasperate him; but toward the end of the 
lesson, so as to send the excellent old man 
away happy, we pretended to have learned - 
something, and put on all the airs and graces 


Convent Life of George Sand. 115 


we could muster to please him. It would 
have been too cruel to go on vexing such 
a kind and patient teacher. But it was 
very hard to follow his directions with 
proper gravity, though in this way we 
learned how to act. Certainly old-fashioned 
grace must have been very different from 
what goes by that name nowadays; for 
the more absurd and affected we were, the 
more he praised us. 

In spite of all M. Abraham’s lessons, I 
was still round-shouldered, with abrupt, un- 
conventional manners and an utter abhor- 
rence of gloves and low courtesies. My 
grandmother scolded me a great deal for 
these shortcomings. The days when I was 
allowed to leave the convent were mainly 
occupied with visits to some of her old 
countesses, to whom she wished to intro- 
duce me, apparently with the hope of in- 
teresting them in me, and laying the foun- 
dation of future social relations; but most 
of these ladies seemed to me very uncon- 
genial. In the evening we dined at my 
uncle’s, or with my cousins, and it was 
always time to go back to the convent just 
when I began to feel somewhat at ease. In 
the morning I would start joyous and alert, 


116 Convent Life of George Sand. 


and reach my grandmother's full of impa- 
tient expectation; but after two or three 
hours a chill would come over me, — par- 
ticularly as the moment of departure drew 
near, — and I was never calm and gay till I 
found myself back again in the convent. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 117 


L. 


ee pleasantest thing that happened to 
me about this time was having a cell 
to myself. Each of the young ladies of the 
upper class had one, but I had been kept 
in the dormitory on account of my unruly 
ways. In this dormitory under the roof it 
was suffocating in summer, and freezing in 
winter; and one could hardly ever pass a 
night undisturbed, for there was always 
some child who cried out with pain or 
terror. And then, never to be in one’s 
own room, never to be alone by day or by 
night, is very hard for those who like to 
think and dream. Life in common is ideal 
when people are fond of one another; I 
have realized this in the convent, and I 
shall never forget it: but every thoughtful 
person needs times of solitude and reflec- 
tion, for in this way only one can enjoy thor- 
oughly the sweetness of companionship. 
The cell that they gave me was the 
worst in the convent,—a garret room at 


118 Convent Life of George Sand. 


the farthest end of the building, adjoining 
the church. The next, similar to mine, 
was occupied by Coralie le Narrois, a very 
austere, but simple, pious, timid creature, 
whose proximity it was thought would in- 
spire me with awe. 

However, we got along very well together, 
in spite of the difference in our tastes; for 
I took great care not to disturb her sleep 
or devotions when I slipped out noiselessly 
to meet Fanelly and other light-minded 
comrades on the staircase: and then we 
would wander about till late at night in the 
organ-loft perhaps, or in the garret where 
they kept onions. We had to pass close 
to the door of Maria Josepha, one of the 
servants; but she was always a sound 
sleeper. 

My cell was about ten feet long by six 
wide, and so low that, lying in bed, my 
head touched the sloping roof. The door, 
when it opened, grazed the bureau close 
to the window opposite; and I could not 
shut it without getting into the embra- 
sure of this window, consisting of four 
panes, looking on a projecting gutter 
that completely hid from view the court 
below. But the outlook was superb; I saw 


' Convent Life of George Sand. 119 


a part of Paris over the tops of our great 
horse-chestnut trees, and large nurseries 
and kitchen gardens spread out below, 
encircling our domain. But for the sil- 
houettes of houses and public buildings 
against the sky, I might have fancied my- 
self, if not in the country, at least in an 
immense village. The bell-tower of the 
convent and the low cloisters stood out 
in the foreground; and by night, espe- 
cially by moonlight, the effect was very 
picturesque. 

I heard the clock strike close by; and 
though at first that prevented me from 
sleeping, I became gradually accustomed to 
its ponderous, melancholy chime, and liked 
to lie there, half asleep and half awake, 
listening to the far-away nightingales tak- 
ing up again their interrupted song. 

My furniture consisted of a wooden 
painted bedstead, an old bureau, a straw- 
bottomed chair, a miserable little rug, and 
a small Louis XV. harp, extremely pretty, 
which had gleamed under the white arms of 
my grandmother in her youthful days, and 
on which I was learning to accompany my- 
self when I sang. For this purpose I was 
allowed to practise in my cell; and this 


7 


120 Convent Life of George Sand. 


became an excuse for passing an hour there 
every day alone. In truth, I rarely prac- 
tised at all; but this hour of solitude and 
revery became very precious. The spar- 
rows hopped in boldly, and ate even on my 
bed the crumbs I gave them. Although 
this poor little cell was an oven in summer, 
and in winter literally an ice-house, — the 
moisture from the roof congealing and 
forming stalactites in the cracks of my 
dilapidated ceiling,— I was so much at- 
tached to the place that I remember kissing 
the walls fondly when I left. A whole world 
of dreams and experience seemed to abide 
in this little dusty, miserable nook. There 
alone I was myself, belonged to myself alone. 
By day I thought of nothing in particular ; 
I watched the clouds, the branches of the 
trees, the swallows’ flight. By night I lay 
and listened to the distant, confused mur- 
mur of the great city, that died away and 
was lost in the rural sounds of our suburb. 
As soon as the day dawned, the noises of 
the convent began, and drowned the out- 
side clamor. Our cocks crowed, the bells 
rang for matins, and the blackbirds in the 
garden repeated over and over again their 
morning song. The monotonous voices of 


Convent Life of George Sand. 121 


the nuns chanting the service came faintly 
to my ears, penetrating every fissure of the 
sonorous pile. The hoarse cries of the 
venders of provisions rose from the court 
below, contrasting with the cadences of 
the nuns’ sweet chant; and finally the 
shrill call of Maria Josepha came nearer 
and nearer as she hurried from room to 
room, and pushing back the creaking bolts 
of the doors that closed the passages, put 
an end to my listening. 

The studies for which my grandmother 
gave up the pleasure of having me at 
home amounted to nothing. She laid 
great stress upon accomplishments; and 
as a “diable ” emeritus, I took no interest 
in my lessons. In truth, I was getting 
sick of this aimless waste of time; but it 
had become a habit difficult to break. 


122 Convent Life of George Sand. 


XII. 


HERE came all at once, however, a 
great change in my life; and a pas- 
sionate devotion blazed up spontaneously 
in a soul ignorant of itself. I was weary of 
idleness, of yielding to the caprices of my 
companions or following their lead, — tired, 
in short, of our long-continued, systematic 
rebellion against discipline. My worship- 
ful love for Madame Alicia was a calm 
affection, and I needed some ardent pas- 
sion. I was fifteen years old, with a great 
yearning for love, and a void in my heart. 
Personal vanity was not yet aroused, and I 
felt none of the inordinate solicitude about 
my own appearance so common in almost 
all the young girls of my age. I needed to 
love some one or some thing that was not 
myself; and I knew no one on earth whom 
I could love with all my might. I did 
not turn to God; but what Christians call 
divine grace came down to me, and took — 
possession of me as if by surprise. I had 


Convent Life of George Sand. 123 


listened with indifference to the exhorta- 
tions of the nuns; even Madame Alicia 
herself had not influenced me consciously. 
This is the way it happened. I shall sim- 
ply relate the facts, without attempting any 
explanation; for there is a mystery in these 
processes, these sudden transformations of 
our innermost souls, which it is not well 
to try to unveil, even to ourselves. 

We went to mass at seven every morning, 
as I have said; and at four in the after- 
noon we returned to the church for half an. 
hour, — which was passed by the devoutly 
inclined in prayer, meditation, or some re- 
ligious reading. The others yawned, took 
maps, or whispered when the teacher, was 
not watching them. One day, for want of 
occupation, I opened a book that had been 
given into my hands, and which I had not 
yet thought of reading. The leaves were 
still stuck together by the coloring on 
the edges. It was an abridgment of the 
“Lives of the Saints;” and glancing at 
the pages, my eye was caught by the 
strange legend of Saint Simeon Stylites, so 
ridiculed by Voltaire. In fact, it is much 
more the story of an Indian fakir than 
of a Christian philosopher. The legend 


: res - 


124 Convent Life of George Sand. 


first made me smile; then its originality 
captivated me. I read it over again with 
interest, and thought it even more poetical 
than absurd. The next day I read another 
story, and on the following devoured sev- 
eral with avidity. I did not care for the 
miracles related; but the faith, the courage, 
the endurance of these martyrs seemed to 
me glorious, and made some hidden chord 
vibrate in my soul. 

There was at the back of the choir a 
superb picture by Titian, that I could 
never see distinctly. Very dark itself, 
and hung too high in a corner where 
there was little light, it was hard to dis- 
tinguish anything more than masses of rich 
color on a sombre background. The sub- 
ject was Jesus in the Garden of Olives. 
He was represented fainting in the arms of 
an attendant angel. The kneeling Saviour 
had sunk down, one of his arms sustained 
by those of the angel, who supported on 
his breast that beautiful, ghastly, agonized 
head. I sat opposite this picture, and 
had looked at it so constantly that at last 
I divined, more than comprehended, its 
meaning. There was one time only when 
I could see the details clearly. This was 


4 


Convent Life of George Sand. 125 


in winter, when the rays of the setting sun 
fell on the red drapery of the angel and the 
white, bare arm of the Christ. The glitter 
of the glass gave it for a few moments a 
transcendent beauty; and at that instant I 
always felt a thrill of emotion, even when 
I was far from being devout, and never 
dreamed that I could become so. 

As I turned over the pages of the “ Lives 
of the Saints,” my eyes wandered continu- 
ally to this picture. It was in summer; 
the setting sun no longer illumined the 
painting, but the contemplated object was 
visible to my mind, if not to my eyes. 
Looking fixedly at those great masses of 
color, I sought the hidden meaning of such 
a keen, voluntary sorrow, and began to ap- 
prehend something far deeper and grander 
than anything I had ever been told. I 
grew very sad myself, as if in sympathy, — 
deeply distressed, and touched to the heart 
by pain and pity such as I had never be- 
fore imagined. Unbidden tears rushed 
to my eyes; but I brushed them away, 
ashamed to be overcome by my feelings 
without knowing why. It could not have 
been the beauty of the picture; for it 
was so indistinct that I should only have 


126 Convent Life of George Sand. 


said it looked as if it must be beautiful. 
There was another painting in the choir, 
that we could see better; but it was far less 
remarkable. It represented Saint Augus- 
tine under the fig-tree, with the miraculous | 
sunbeam on which was written the famous 
“ Tolle, lege,” — the mysterious words that 
the son of Monica thought he heard in the 
branches, —a command that decided him 
to open and read the Gospels. 

I found the Life of Saint Augustine, of 
which I knew something already; for the 
saint, as the patron of our order, was held 
in especial veneration in the convent. The 
story delighted me with its impress of sin- 
cerity and enthusiasm. Then I read the 
Life of Saint Paul, and the “ Cur me per- 
sequeris?”” made a deep impression .on 
me. The little Latin that I had learned 
at home enabled me to understand a part 
of the services. I began to listen, and to’ 
discover in the Psalms, recited every day 
by the nuns, admirable poetic simplicity. 
In short, for a whole week the Catholic 
religion seemed to me a very interesting 
study. 

“ Tolle, lege,’ decided me also, at last, to 
open the New Testament and read the Gos- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 127 


pels over attentively. The first impression 
was not strong; there was no novelty in 
the Holy Book. I had always enjoyed the 
beauty of the narrations; but my grand- 
mother had tried so hard to show me the 
absurdity of the miracles, and had repeated 
so many of Voltaire’s witticisms, — espe- 
cially what he says of the evil spirits escap- 
ing into the herd of swine, —that I had 
looked at it all very sceptically under her 
influence, and was not now particularly 
moved, even in reading of the agony and 
death of Jesus. 

That day, at nightfall, I was sadly pacing 
the cloisters. All my friends were in the 
garden, and there were no teachers near. 
I was not at all in the mood for a frolic; 
in fact, I had come away to avoid my com- 
panions, — for I felt disgusted with the 
inanity of my life, and asked myself: “Is 
there any new thing left for a ‘diable’ to 
do, after all?” Some of the nuns passed, 
and a few boarders; they were going to 
pray or meditate in the church, each one 
separately, as was the pious custom at this 
hour of recreation. 

The idea occurred to me to follow them, 
put some ink in the holy-water font, or tie 


128 Convent Life of George Sand. 


Whisky by one leg to the cloister bell-rope ; 
but these things had been done so many 
times already that they were old tricks. 
I saw plainly that I had exhausted the 
resources of my disorderly career, and that 
something new must be done. But what? 
Even if I could, I did not want to be 
one of the good girls, — most assuredly 
not a stupid one; and I said to myself: 
“To-day I have tried; I have read the 
Holy Book, — the life and teachings of 
the Redeemer,—and my heart was not 
touched, and I do not believe it ever will 
be.” Several devotees just then passed — 
along in the gloom, going by themselves 
to pour out their contrite souls before a 
God of love and forgiveness. I had a curi- 
osity to see what they did, and how they 
manifested their devotion in solitude, — 
especially a humpbacked old woman, one 
of the lodgers, who stole by looking more 
like a witch than one of the wise virgins. 
“IT mean to go and see,” I said to myself, 
“how that little monster wriggles about on 
her bench; when I tell the other ‘ diables,’ 
it will make them laugh.” I followed her, 
crossed the chapter-house, and entered the 
church. We were not allowed to go there 


Convent Life of George Sand. 129 


at this time of the evening without a spe- 
cial permission; and this was another 
inducement, — for I felt that it was not 
derogatory to a “diable” to smuggle her- 
self in. It is singular that the first time I 
ever entered a church of my own accord 
it was against the rules, and with the inten- 
tion of committing a shameful action. 
Hardly had I set foot in the church than 
I entirely forgot my old woman, who trotted 
along and disappeared in some nook as if 
she had beenarat. She vanished also from 
my thoughts, I was so charmed and im- 
pressed with the aspect of the church itself 
by night. It was really more a chapel than 
a church, and had nothing remarkable about 
it except its exquisite neatness. An oblong 
building, with freshly whitewashed walls and 
no architectural pretension whatever, it was 
more like a Protestant conventicle than a 
Catholic place of worship. There were, as 
I have said, a few pictures in the choir; on 
the simple altar, decked with pretty silken 
stuffs, stood massive silver candlesticks, and 
beautiful flowers constantly renewed. The 
nave was divided into three parts, — one in- 
tended for the use of priests and privileged | 
guests on festival days; the front choir for 
9 


130 Convent Life of George Sand. 


the pupils, servants, and residents; and 
last, the chancel, appropriated to the nuns. 
This part of the sanctuary had an inlaid 
floor, waxed every morning and carefully 
polished; and here also were the nuns’ 
stalls, arranged in a semicircle against the 
wall. They were of walnut, and shone like 
glass. A high grating with very small 
interstices, and a grated iron door never 
closed, made a line of separation between 
the sisters and ourselves. On each side of 
this door heavy fluted rococo wooden pillars 
supported the organ, as well as an open 
gallery thrown across like a “jubé” be- 
tween the two parts of the church. Thus, 
contrary to custom, the organ stood out 
almost in the centre of the nave, and added 
greatly to the effect of our voices when 
we sang motets and choruses on great oc- 
casions. The part of the choir reserved for 
the pupils was paved with sepulchral slabs ; 
and on the old flagstones were inscribed epi- 
taphs of prioresses who had died before the 
Revolution, with names of ecclesiastics, and 
even of laymen, of the time of James Stuart. 
I remember the name of Throckmorton 
under our feet; and it was said that if you 
went into the church at midnight, all these 


Convent Life of George Sand. 131 


dead men pushed up the stones with their 
fleshless skulls and glared at you, beseech- 
ing your prayers. 

In spite of these associations, and the 
obscurity of the church, the impression I re- 
ceived that night was not gloomy. There 
was no light save that which came from 
the little silver lamp in the chancel, and its 
white flame was imaged in the polished 
floor like a star in a pool of water. This 
reflected light touched here and there the 
fretted picture frames, gleamed on the chis- 
elled candlesticks, and glimmered on the 
gilded sheathing of the tabernacle. The 
door at the back of the chancel was wide 
open on account of the heat, as well as 
one of the large windows above the burial- 
ground. The perfume. of jessamine and 
honeysuckle was borne to me on the wings 
of a refreshing breeze. A star, lost in 
immensity, framed by the open window, 
seemed to look at me intently. Nightin- 
gales were singing in the distance. I had 
never felt before the charm and mystery of 
this holy peace, and I gave myself up to the 
new delight. By and by the few persons 
scattered about the church went out noise- 
lessly. A nun who had been kneeling in 


132 Convent Life of George Sand. 


the chancel, wishing apparently to read 
after her meditation, came forward to light 
her taper at the lamp swinging before the 
altar. The sisters did not merely bend the 
knee, but prostrated themselves literally, as 
if bowed to the earth before the Holy of 
Holies. This nun was tall and stately: it 
must have been Madame Eugenie, Madame 
Marie Xavier, or Madame Monica; but we 
never could recognize these ladies in church, 
for their faces were covered by their veils, 
and they wore long black woollen mantles 
that disguised the figure and swept the 
floor. The sombre dress ; the slow, noiseless 
motions; the simple, graceful gesture with 
which she lifted her arm to grasp the ring 
and bring the shining silver lamp within 
her reach; the strong light thrown on her 
black form as she slid the cresset back to 
its place ; her long, reverent prostration be- 
fore the altar; the noiseless, graceful way in 
which she returned to her stall, even the im- 
personality of the unknown nun (who might 
have been, for aught I knew, a phantom 
from the past, on the point of disappearing 
beneath the storied slabs, to lie down again 
on her marble couch),—all filled me with 
emotions of mingled terror and delight. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 133 


Enraptured with the poetry of the place, 
I lingered long after the nun had finished 
~ reading and had gone away. It was grow- 
ing late; prayers were over, and it was time 
,to close the church. I had lost all sense of 
time. I do not know exactly how it was, 
but it seemed as if I were breathing an 
atmosphere of indescribable sweetness, in- 
haling it more with my soul than with my 
senses. All at once I felt something like 
a shock, and grew dizzy. A white light 
flashed before my eyes, in which I gradu- 
ally seemed enveloped. I thought I heard 
a whisper. in my ear,“ Tolle, . lege!" 1 
turned quickly round, thinking that Mother 
Alicia was speaking to me; but I was 
alone! 

Knowing well that I was under a sort of 
hallucination, I was neither elated nor ter- 
rified. I did not say to myself that it was a | 
miracle, or even a vainglorious deception, 
but I tried to see things as they really were; 
only I felt sure that faith had taken posses- 
sion of my heart, — as I had always hoped 
it might,— and my face was bathed in 
tears of happiness and gratitude. I knew, 
too, that at last I loved God; that my 
thought unquestioning embraced that ideal 


134 Convent Life of George Sand. 


justice, tenderness, and holiness, whose 
existence I had never doubted, but with 
which I had never been in direct communi- 
cation. I felt all at once that this commu- 
nication was established,—as if an insur- 
mountable barrier had suddenly given way 
between the source of infinite life and the 
slumbering forces of my soul. I saw along 
vista stretch out endlessly before me, and I 
longed to tread that road. There was no 
more doubt or lukewarmness, and it never 
even occurred to me that I could regret or 
ridicule this passionate excitement; for I 
was one of those who never look behind, — 
who hesitate a long time before passing the 
Rubicon, — but who, once on the other side, 
lose sight entirely of the shore they have 
just left. “Yes, the veil is lifted,” I softly ex- 
claimed! “I see the light, and I shall walk 
toward it. But, first of all, let me- give 
thanks.” 

To whom, and how? I said to the un- 
known God who had drawn me to him. 
“What is thy name? How shall I pray? 
What words worthy of thee, and capable 
of expressing love, can my soul utter? I 
know not; but thou readest my thoughts, 
thou knowest that I love thee!”— and my 


Convent Life of George Sand. 135 


tears broke forth at last like rain. I sobbed » 
convulsively; I fell prostrate behind my 
bench, and literally watered the floor with 
my tears. 

The sister who came in to close the 
church heard me weeping, and came to me 
in some alarm. I do not think she recog- 
nized me, and I did not know her under 
her veil in the darkness. Quickly rising, I 
passed by her without looking up or speak- 

ing, and groped my way back to my cell. 

' The prayers were all over; but I had 
prayed more fervently than any of the girls 
that night, and I soon fell asleep, overcome 
with fatigue, yet in a state of indescribable 
beatitude. The next day the Countess, 
who had happened to remark my absence 
from prayers, asked me where I had been 
all the evening. I had never been a liar, 
and now I answered promptly, “In the 
church.” She looked at me for a moment 
in doubt, but saw that I was speaking the 
truth, and kept silence. I was not punished, 
but I do not know what she thought of my 
answer. Strange to say, I did not go at 
once to Madame Alicia and pour out my 
heart. I said nothing to my friends, “les 
diables;” for I felt reticent about my 


136 Convent Life of George Sand. 


new-found happiness, though not in the 
least ashamed. What other people would 
think did not much concern me, and I was 
like a miser with the treasure of my joy. I 
awaited impatiently the hour for meditation 
in the church. The “ Tolle, lege,” of my 
ecstatic vision was ringing in my ears, and 
I longed to read again the sacred book; 
yet I did not open it, but thought it all 
over, — knowing it almost by heart. The 
miraculous part, which had been such a 
stumbling-block, troubled me no _ longer. 
Not only did I feel no inclination to ex- 
amine critically, but I despised the idea of 
doing so. After the deep emotion I had 
experienced, I said to myself that I should 
be demented, and my own worst enemy, 
coolly to try and analyze, comment upon, 
or discuss the source of such ecstatic 
delight. 2. 

At the end of four or five days, Anna, 
remarking that I was silent and absorbed, 
and that I went to church every evening, 
said, with astonishment, — 

“My dear ‘note-book’ [that was the 
name she had given me], what does all this’ 
mean? Can it be that you have actually 
become pious?” 


\ 


Convent Life of George Sand. 137 


“] have become pious, my child,” I an- 
swered quietly. 

“That is impossible.” 

“T give you my word of honor that I am 
speaking the truth.” 

“Well,” she said, after thinking a min- 
ute, “I shall say nothing to dissuade you, 
—in the first place, becauise I do not be- 
lieve it would be of any use; and then I 
have always said that you are an impulsive 
creature. But you must not expect me to 
follow your example; I am naturally scep- 
tical, and reason about things. I envy you 
your happiness, and think you are right 
not to hesitate; but I do not believe that 
I shall ever be satisfied without proof. If 
such a miracle came to pass, however, I 
should do the same, I acknowledge.” 

“Shall you love me less?” I asked. 

“Tf I did, it would not afflict you now,” 
she answered; “devotion is all-absorbing, 
and makes up for everything. But I believe 
you are perfectly sincere, and I shall remain 
your friend just the same.” 

She went on to speak very affection- 
ately, and never failed to be from that time 
sensible, considerate, and even indulgent. 

Sophia was not much affected by the 


138 Convent Life of George Sand. 


change that had been wrought in me. She 
had always been a sober sort of a “ diable,” 
having occasional fits of devotion and mo- 
ments of depression that she could never 
explain and did not like to acknowledge. 
It was becoming rather unfashionable to be 
a “diable,” and my conversion seemed to 
give the institution its finishing. stroke. 
Perhaps the others, like me, -were some 
tired of so much dissipation. 

Fanelly was the one whom I feared most 
to grieve; but she spared me the pain of 
refusing to join her sports by coming to 
me at once and saying: “So, my aunt, you 
are going to be good! Well, if that makes 
you happy, I am glad; and if you like, I will 
be good too. I am willing to be pious, so 
as to do Just what you ae and stay always 
with you.’ 

If that had depended on an affectionate 
impulse, it would have been as she said; but 
she was too unstable. In truth, among “les 
diables” Anna and I were the only ones 
susceptible of what is technically called, 
conversion. The others were not pious, be- — 
cause they were too frivolous; but they were 
not unbelievers, and the moment our mis- 
demeanors came to an end, they became a 


Convent Life of George Sand. 139 


little more regular in pious practices, with- 
out being a whit more fervent than before. 

Anna was strong-minded. That word 
describes her perfectly, because she had a 
great deal of intellect and will; while I had 
neither strength of mind nor force of will. 
There was nothing strong in me but pas- 
sion; and when that took the form of reli- 
gion, it consumed my heart, and nothing in 
-my intellect opposed it. Anna became 
pious after her marriage, but so long as 
she remained in the convent, she was stead- 
fast in her unbelief. 

I kept up my intimacy with Louise de la 
Rochejaquelein. She was still in the lower 
division, being one of the younger girls; but 
she was always more sensible and better 
informed than I was. I met her in the 
cloisters a few days after my change of 
heart; since she was neither good, stupid, 
nor a “diable,” her judgment would be un- 
biassed, and I was curious to know what 
she would say. 

“Well,” she asked, “are you going on 
in the same way; are you just as much of 
a reprobate as ever?” 

“ What should you say,” I answered, “ if I 
told you that I had become very religious?” 


140 Convent Life of George Sand. 


“ T should say that you were doing right, 
and I should love you more than ever.” 

She kissed me most affectionately, with- 
out attempting any encouragement to per- 
severe, — perceiving, undoubtedly, how en- 
thusiastic I was. 

Mary came back about this time. She 
had grown a head taller; her expression 
was more boyish, and her manners even 
more impetuous and independent than for- 
merly. She re-entered the lower class, and 
became so uproarious that her relatives 


took her away after a few months.. She 


was never tired of laughing at my piety; 
and whenever we met she made me the 
butt of her unsparing ridicule. I was not 
angry, however; for she was so gay and free 


from malice that she made fun of me with- | 


out hurting my feelings. We met long 
afterwards, when we were both upwards of 
forty, with unabated affection for each other, 
and hearty reciprocal enjoyment in talking 
over old times. | 

My sudden conversion hardly allowed me 
time to breathe. Absorbed as I was in 
this new passion, I was eager to taste all its 
delights, and made haste to see my confessor, 
that I might be officially reconciled with 


se 


Convent Life of George Sand. 141 


Heaven. He was an aged priest,—the 
most simple, sincere, and pure-minded of 
men; and yet he was a Jesuit. But no 
one could be more upright and charitable 
than Abbé Prémord. He was the con- 
fessor for a few of the girls,— Abbé de 
Villéle, the director of the convent, not 
having time enough to attend to all. We 
were sent to confession, whether we would 
or not, once a month,—a detestable cus- ‘ 
tom, which did violence to our consciences 
and condemned to hypocrisy those who had 
no courage to resist. 

“ Father,” said I to the Abbe, “ you know 
perfectly well how I have confessed hither- 
to; that is to say, that I have not confessed 
at all. I have only repeated a formula 
that we have to learn by heart, the same for 
all who come to confession against their 
will. You have never given me absolution, 
and I have never asked for it; but to-day 
I do ask you, for I want to confess and 
repent seriously. I must acknowledge, 
though, that I do not know what to say; 
for I cannot remember any sin that I have 
deliberately committed. I have lived and 
thought and believed as I have been taught ; 
and if I have done wrong not to be a be- 


142 Convent Life of George Sand. 


liever, my conscience never has told me so. 
Nevertheless, I must do penance, undoubt- 
edly ; and I want you to direct me, so that I 
may be able to tell in future what is right 
and what is wrong.” 

“Wait a minute, my child,” said he; “I 
see that this is what is called a general con- 
fession, and we shall have a great deal to 
talk about. Sit down.” 

We were in the sacristy. I took a chair, 
and asked him if he wanted to ask me 
questions. 

“No,” he answered; “I rarely ask any 
questions, and this is the only one I shall 
put to you: Are you accustomed to make 
out your examinations of conscience from 
the formulas?” 

“Yes,” I answered; “but there are a 
great many sins that I cannot tell whether 
I have committed or not, because I do not 
understand about them.” 

“Very well; now I forbid you hence- 
forward to consult a formulary, or to try to 
learn the secrets of your conscience from 
any one but yourself. Now let us talk. 
Tell me simply and quietly all about your 
life as you remember it, conceive of it, and 
judge it. Do not arrange anything, or 


Convent Life of George Sand. 143 


decide about the right and wrong of the 
actions you describe, or your thoughts 
either. Do not consider me in the light 
of a judge ora confessor, but talk to me 
as if I were an old friend. When you have 
finished, I will tell you what I should advise 
you to correct or encourage in the interest 
of your happiness in this world and in the 
life to come.” 

These words, and the kind way in which 
they were said, put me entirely at my ease; 
and I told him what I could recollect of my 
life so much in detail that the story lasted 
more than three hours. The good man 
listened with fatherly interest and unflag- 
ging attention. Several times I saw him 
wipe his eyes, especially toward the end, 
when I told him simply how I had been con- 
verted, just when I least expected it. 

The Abbé Prémord was a real Jesuit, but 
for all that a conscientious man, with a kind 
and tender heart ; and his morality was pure, 
humane, and human. He never encouraged 
mysticism, and exhorted in a practical way, 
-with a great deal of fervor and kindness. 
He told me that I must not lose myself in 
dreamy anticipation of a better world, for- 
getting how to live well here below; that 











144 Convent Life of George Sand. 


is why I call him a real Jesuit, in spite of 
his sincerity and virtue. 

When my story was done, I asked him to 
condemn what was wrong, so that kneel- 
ing before him, recalling those faults in 
confession and sincerely repenting, I might 
receive absolution. 

“ But,” he answered, “you have already 
confessed. If you have not been enlight- 
ened sooner by divine grace, it is not_your 
fault. Now, of course, you may be guilty if 
you neglect to avail yourself of the salutary — 
emotion you have experienced. Kneel to 
receive absolution, which I will give you 
with all my heart.” 
~ When he had pronounced the sacramen- 
tal formula he added: “Go in peace. You 
can take the communion to-morrow. Be 
calm and joyous; do not torment yourself - 
with useless remorse; thank God for having 
touched your heart, and let nothing disturb 
the deep joy of the holy union of your soul 
with the Saviour.” 

I communed the next day, the 15th of 
August, the festival of the Assumption. I 
was fifteen years old, and had never ap- 
proached the sacrament since my first com- 
-™union. It was on the evening of the 4th 





Convent Life of George Sand. 145 


of August that I had experienced the deep 
emotion which I called my conversion; so 
that I had not been long in carrying out 
the impulse received. I was eager to do 
something in accordance with my faith, — 
to testify, as they used to say, before the 
Lord. “This day — really my first com- 
munion — seemed the happiest of my life; 
I was full of overflowing tenderness and 
assurance of strength. I do not know how 
I prayed; the consecrated formulas did not 
suffice. I used them a$ an act of obedi- 
ence; but for hours alone in the church I 
poured out my soul in prayer. 

The summer was passed by me in a 
blissful state of beatitude. I communed 
every Sunday, and sometimes two days in 
succession besides. Since then I have 
shrunk from the materialism of the idea of 
eating the flesh and drinking the blood of the 
Divine Being ; but then I did not reason, — 
I was in a bewilderment of joy. I was told: 
“God is in you, palpitating in your heart, 
penetrating your life with his divinity; divine 
grace courses in your veins ;” and I accepted 
as a miracle this complete identification with 
the Supreme Being. I was consumed like 


Saint Theresa. I neither ate nor slept as 
: to 


146 Convent Life of George Sand. 


usual; I moved unconsciously; I condemned 
myself to austerities that were not at all meri- 
torious, —for there was no sacrifice, I felt no 
exhaustion from fasting. I wore constantly 
a filigree chain that rubbed my skin like a 
hair shirt; and when I felt the blood running 
down my neck, instead of pain the sensation 
was agreeable. In short, I was in a constant 
ecstasy ; my body had become insensible, and 
hardly seemed to exist. I was now orderly, 
obedient, and industrious, as a matter of 
course, and it cost ‘me no effort. Since my 
heart was touched, it was not hard to perform 
my daily duties. The nuns treated me very 
affectionately,— but I must say that there was 
no cajolery ; they did not seek to stimulate 
my fervor by any of the means of seduction 
commonly supposed to be employed in reli- 
gious communities. Their devotion was 
calm, a trifle cold perhaps, dignified, even 
proud. With one notable exception, they 
had neither the gift nor the desire to 
proselyte. It may have been character- 
istic of their order, or else a trait of their 
nationality. 

Madame Alicia was just as kind as ever, 
—though she did not appear to love me 
any better after my conversion than she had 


Convent Life of George Sand. 147 


done before; and this made my affection for 
her still greater. Enjoying to the full this 
pure and reliable loving-kindness, -I appre- 
ciated every day more and more the admi- 
rable motherly woman who had cared as 
much for the rebellious, undisciplined child 
as for the docile, well-behaved girl I had 
now become. 

Madame Eugénie — who had been so in- 
dulgent to me that the girls had accused her 
of partiality — grew more severe as I became 
more manageable. Now, when I broke 
the rules unintentionally or from absent- 
mindedness, she was often very sharp and 
exacting; and one day, when I had been so 
deep in a pious revery that I did not hear — 
what she said, she mercilessly inflicted upon 
me the once familiar night-cap punishment. 
A murmur of astonishment rose from the 
whole schoolroom. 

“The idea of making Saint Aurora [a 
name ‘les diables’ had. given me] wear 
the night-cap!” “You see how it is,” the 
girls said to one another; “ this queer, arbi- 
trary woman really likes ‘les diables, and 
since Aurora fell into the holy-water font she 
cannot endure her.” 

The night-cap, however, did not trouble 


7% he LT Jee 
‘ 


~ 


148 Convent Life of George Sand. 


me; for I was sure that I did not mean to 
do wrong, and I was rather pleased to have 
Mother Eugénie treat me just as she would 
have treated another girl in the same cir- 
cumstances. I did not believe that she 
loved me any less, for she showed her 
preference by coming to my cell at night 
if I had seemed sad or unwell, to ask how 
I was,—coldly, sometimes ironically, it is 
true; but to come at all, to show so much 
interest in me, was a great deal for her 
to do, and she did it for no one else. I 
could not open my heart to her as I did to 
Mother Alicia; but I was not insensible to 
these marks of affection, and kissed grate- 
fully her cold, long white hand. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 149 


XIII. 


URING the height of my first excite- 
ment I contracted a friendship con- 
sidered still more unaccountable than my 
partiality for Mother Eugénie, but which 
remains one of the dearest and sweetest 
memories of my convent life. 

One morning as I was crossing the clois- 
ters I saw a lay sister seated on the lowest 
step of the staircase leading to the dormi- 
tories, —pale, fainting, with beads of per- 
spiration standing on her forehead. On 
each side of her was a slop-pail, which 
she had brought down to empty; but the 
weight and the offensive odor had over- 
come her courage and strength. 

This pale, thin, consumptive-looking wo- 
man was Sister Helen, the youngest of the 
lay sisters, —the one on whom devolved — 
the hardest and dirtiest work of the con- 
vent. On this account some of the fastidi- 
ous girls would not go near her, — affecting 
to shudder at the idea of her sitting by 


150 Convent Life of George Sand. 


them, and carefully avoiding any contact 
with her garments in passing. She was 
very plain and ordinary looking, with a 
cadaverous, freckled face. And yet there 
was a certain charm about her ugliness; 
for on looking more closely one saw that 
her calm, patient expression indicated no 
stolid indifference, but a long acquaintance 
with grief and a habit of resignation, and 
the surmise became a certainty after hear- 
ing from her own lips the unvarnished, 
half unintelligible tale of her humble life. 
Her teeth were the most beautiful I have 
ever seen, — white, small, and regular as a 
string of pearls. When the girls were im- 
agining a perfect beauty, they always gave 
her Sophia’s hair and Sister Helen’s teeth. 

When I saw her thus fainting, I ran to 
her assistance, supported her in my arms, 
and then, not knowing what else to do, said 
I must go to the work-room for help; but 
she would not allow that, and reviving a 
little, tried to rise and take up her pails. 
But the effort was so piteous that it did not 
require a great deal of virtue to make me 
seize them and carry them off. On coming 
back, I saw her, broom in hand, entering 
the church, : 


Convent Life of George Sand. 151 


“Sister Helen,” 1 called out,. “you: are 
killing yourself! you. are too ill to do any 
more to-day. Go to bed, and let me tell 
Poulette to send some one else to do your 
work.” 

“No, no!” she answered, shaking her 
obstinate, bullet-shaped head, “I do not 
need any help: we can always do what we 
will, and I choose to die working.” 

“But that is committing suicide,” I said. 
“God forbids us to seek death, even by 
toil: 

“You don’t understand,” she interrupted. 
“IT must die soon at any rate, the doctors 
say; and I had rather go to heaven in two 
months than linger here six.” 

I dared not inquire if she spoke thus in 
hope or in despair; so I merely asked her 
if she would let me help her clean the 
church, since it was the hour for recrea- 
tion, and I should not be neglecting any 
duties. . She consented, saying, “I do not 
need any help, but we must not hinder 
charitably disposed persons when they want 
to do us a kindness.” She showed me 
how to wax the floor of the chancel, and 
dust and rub with a woollen cloth the 
nuns’ stalls. It was not hard, and I fin- 


152 Convent Life of George Sand. 


ished one side of the semicircle while she 
did the other; but young and strong as I 
was, I became drenched with perspiration, 
while she, inured to fatigue, and apparently 
quite recovered from her faintness, had 
done her part of the work better than 
I, though moving sluggishly like a_ tor- 
toise, and looking as if she were ready to 
drop. 

The next day was a festival; but there 
were no holidays for Sister Helen, since the 
regular work must be done as usual. I met 
her again accidentally as she was going up 
to the dormitory to make more than thirty 
beds, and she asked me if I would like 
to help her,—not, I think, so much per- 
haps with a desire of being relieved of 
her work, as because she began to like 
my companionship. I acceded, and should 
have done so even before religious fervor 
had inspired me with the desire of doing 
disagreeable things. When the work was 
done (in a time made shorter by my help), 
we had a little leisure, and Sister Helen, 
sitting down on a chest, said :— 

“Since you are so obliging, you might 
teach me a little French; it is a great dis- 
advantage not to be able to speak the lan- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 153 


guage, when I have French servants to 
direct.” 

“TI am very glad to have you ask me,” I 
responded; “for that shows that you have 
given up the idea of dying in two months.” 

“God’s will be done!” she said. “I can- 
not help wishing to die; but I do not pray 
for death: my suffering must last as long 
as God wills.” 

“ My good sister, are you then really so 
very ils 

“The doctors say so,” she answered, 
“and there are times when I am in so much 
pain that I think they must be right; but 
after all, I am so strong that they may be 
mistaken. However, as God wills.” And 
she rose, saying: “ Will you come to my 
cell to-night? Then you can give me my 
first lesson.” 

I consented, making an effort to hide my 
reluctance. This poor sister was very dis- 
tasteful to me, — not so much in herself as 
in her apparel, which was dirty; for her 
woollen robe had a sickening smell. Then, 
too, I hated to give up my hour of ecstasy 
in the church in order to teach French to a 
person who was not very intelligent, and 
spoke such bad English. 


154 Convent Life of George Sand. 


However, as I had said I would 0, that 
evening I for the first time entered Sister 
Helen’s cell, very agreeably disappointed 
to find it not only exquisitely clean, but 
perfumed by the jessamine that grew in the 
yard under her window. The poor sister 
was neat also, attired in a new robe of dark 
blue serge; while the array on her toilet- 
table showed the care she took of her per- 
son. She saw my surprise, and said: — 

“You are astonished to find any one so 
neat and particular who does nothing but 
dirty work from morning to night. It is 
just because I am so sensitive to all that is 
disagreeable and untidy that I have taken 
upon myself, as a penance, the lowest kind 
of drudgery. When I first came to France 
I was shocked to see the dull andirons and 
rusty fastenings, and did not believe that I 
could ever be accustomed to live in a coun- 
try where they were so careless. At home 
I could see my face in the polished furni- 
ture, and alli our tins and brasses. But to 
make things neat you must take hold of 
what is dirty sometimes; you see that my 
taste pointed out the way to salvation.” 

She said this with the gayety of most 
valiant persons. I asked her where she 


Convent Life of George Sand. 155 


had lived before she came to the convent; 
and she began to tell me her story, with 
a strong brogue, but in a simple, rustic 
idiom whose vigor I am unable to re- 
produce. This was the substance of her 
story : — j 

“T come from the Highlands of Scot- 
land, and am one of a large family of chil- 
dren. My father is a man of strong will. 
He is not poor, but he works very hard. 
I looked after the sheep, and busied my- 
self within doors taking care of my little 
brothers and sisters. We loved each other 
dearly. I was happy there in the coun- 
try, in the fields with the animals; and it 
did not seem to me possible to live shut 
up, even in a town. I never concerned 
myself much about my salvation; but a 
sermon that I heard one day changed all 
my ideas, and filled me with such a desire 
to please God that I had no longer any 
delight or rest at home. The sermon was 
about self-renunciation, and when I asked 
myself what was the hardest thing I could 
do for the love of God, I made up my 
mind that it would be to go away and sep- 
arate myself forever from my family. I 
soon became resolved to do so. I went to 


156 Convent Life of George Sand. 


the priest whose sermon I had heard, and 
told him that I had a ‘vocation.’ He did 
not believe me, and took me to the bishop, 
who said: ‘Are you unhappy at home? 
Are you tired of living in the country?’ 
and he wanted to know if anything had 
happened to make me angry or grieve me. 
I told him that if that were the case, I 
should not think my vocation a true one; 
but I was persuaded that it was not a mere 
fancy, because leaving home was the great- 
est renunciation I could possibly imagine. 
When the bishop had questioned me some 
time longer, he said: ‘Yes, you have a 
true vocation; but you must obtain your 
parents’ consent.’ 

“When I went home and told my father, 
he swore that if I ever went back to see 
the priest he would certainly kill me. ‘I 
shall go back, I answered; ‘and if you 
kill me, I shall go to heaven all the sooner. 
I ask nothing better.’ 

“My mother and aunts wept bitterly, 
and reproached me with not loving them, 
— thus causing me great pain, as you may 
well think; but I accepted it as part of my 
martyrdom, and since I could not be cut to 
pieces or burned alive for the love of God, 


Convent Life of George Sand. 157 


I said to myself that I ought to be thank- 
ful if my heart is broken in this trial. So 
I only smiled at the tears of my relatives. 
I grieved really a great deal more than they 
did; but I was rejoiced to suffer. 

“TI went back to see the priest and the 
bishop. . My father abused me, locked me 
up in my room, and on the day appointed 
for me to take the vows he tied me with 
a rope to the foot of a bedstead; but I 
only hoped he would hurt me even more. 
My mother and aunts, seeing his great 
anger, and fearing that in a rage he might 
really kill me, tried to persuade him to let 
me go. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘she may 
go; but she will carry away my curse with 
her.’ | 

“He came and untied me; but when I 
fell at his feet and wanted to embrace him, 
he pushed me away and went out of the 
house. My poor father was in great afflic- 
tion; he had carried his gun with him, and 
they thought he was going to kill himself; 
so my elder brothers followed him, and 
when I was left alone with the women 
and children, they all fell on their knees 
and entreated me to stay with them. But 
I laughed, and said: ‘ Beg me as long as 


158 Convent Life of George Sand. 


you like; you can never make me suffer 
nearly as much as I hope to.’ 

“ There was one little boy, —the child of 
my elder sister, —a perfect cherub, whom 
I had brought up, and who was always 
hanging about me in the house and in the 
fields. Knowing how devoted I was to 
him, they put him in my lap, and he cried 
and kissed me; but I set him on the floor, 
took my bundle, and walked to the door. 
The child got before me, and lying there 
on the threshold, said: ‘If you will go 
away, you shall walk over me.’ I thanked 
God that he spared me no suffering, and 
walked over the prostrate, sobbing child. 

“ As I turned to go away I looked back; 
and he and all my sisters were crying, hold- 
ing back the little ones so that they might 
not run after me. I lifted up my right 
hand and showed them the sky. My fam- 
ily was not irreligious; they all stopped 
crying, and there was a great stillness. I 
walked on, and did not turn around again 
as long as they could see me. Then I 
looked once at the roof of the house, and 
the smoke curling up from the chimney. 
I was forced to sit down a moment; but 
I shed no tears, and when I got to the 


Convent Life of George Sand. 159 


bishop’s I was as calm as I am now. He 
gave me into the care of some pious ladies, 
who sent me here because they feared that 
if I stayed near home my father might 
come and take me away by force.” 

This simple narrative inspired me with an 
ardent desire to take the veil, as well as with 
the most unbounded admiration for Sister 
Helen. I saw in her a saint like those of 
old, — rough, ignorant alike of the refine- 
ments of life and the subtle casuistry by 
which we try to reconcile our consciences 
with our natural affections. She seemed 
to me a sort of Jeanne d’Arc or Saint 
Geneviéve. She was really a mystic, — the 
only one in the convent; but then she was 
not English. 

Her narrative produced the effect of an 
electric shock. I grasped her hands and 
exclaimed: “ You are stronger in your sim- 
ple might than all the learned men in the 
world; and I believe that without intending 
to do so you have pointed out the way I 
must go; I shall be a nun.” 

“So much the better,” she said, with 
the artless confidence of a child; “you 
shall be a lay sister, and we can work 
together.” 3 


160 Convent Life of George Sand. 


It seemed to me that God himself was 
speaking through this inspired woman. 
At last I had found such a saint as I 
had always imagined. The other nuns 
were earthly angels, who without strug- 
gle or suffering enjoyed a foretaste of 
paradisaic peace. - She was more human, 
and also more divine, —~ more human be- 
cause she suffered, and more divine be- 
cause she loved the suffering. She had not 
sought happiness and rest in the cloister, — 
freedom from worldly temptations. Worldly 
temptations! this poor girl, brought up to 
hard labor, could not conceive of them, did 
not know what they were. She had planned 
and carried out a life-long martyrdom, and 
had reasoned with the rude, uncompromis- 
ing logic of the faith of earlier days. Her 
story made me hot and cold by turns. I 
saw her in the fields, listening like “la 
grande pastoure” to mysterious voices in 
the branches of the trees, and the rustling 
of the grain. I saw her trampling on the 
prostrate form of that fair child, whose 
hot tears fell burning on my heart and 
then seemed to drop from my own eyes. 
I saw her alone, standing in the road, cold 
as a marble statue, and yet with her heart 


Convent Life of George Sand. 161 


transfixed by the seven mystic swords, lift- 
ing towards heaven her sunburned hand, 
and imposing silence by her energetic will 
on that sorrowing, unhappy family. 

“O Saint Helen!” I said to myself; “you 
are right,— you are at peace with your- 
self. I will be a nun; it will be the despair 
of my family, and my own too. But nothing 
less than such a despair as that is needed 
to give me the right to say to God, ‘ I love 
thee. I will be a nun, but not an elegant 
cloistered lady, living in exquisite simpli- 
city a life of sanctimonious idleness. I 
will be a lay sister, doing hard work, —a 
servant bowed down with fatigue, cleaning 
sepulchres, carrying filth,—anything and 
everything, so as to be forgotten after 
being cursed by my relatives; so that 
with the bitterness of self-immolation for 
my meat and drink, God may be the only 
witness of my anguish, and his love my 
only reward.” 


II 


162 Convent Life of George Sand. 


XIV. 


HET ORE long I.confided to Mother 

Alicia my plan of becoming a nun; 
but she did not seem particularly enchanted 
with the idea. The excellent, reasonable 
woman said: “If you like, think it over; 
but do not take it too seriotisly. It requires 
more strength than you imagine to carry 
out sucha project. Your relatives, certainly 
your grandmother, would never consent. 
They would accuse us of unduly influencing 
you, and that is not our way of acting. 
We never encourage these immature voca- 
tions, but prefer to await their development. 
You do not know yourself yet, and you 
have a great deal to learn. Come, come, 
my dear sister! it will be along day be- 
- fore you sign that;” and she pointed to the 
formula of her vows in Latin, framed in 
black over her prze-dzeu. This formula was 
irrevocable, binding for life, — not allowed 
now by French law, but it had been signed 


Convent Life of George Sand. 163 


in the chancel of the church, on a little 
table on which stood the Holy Sacrament. 
Madame Alicia’s doubts annoyed me, and 
also troubled me a little; but I thought the 
trouble came from wounded pride, and I 
persisted in the idea— which I kept, how- 
ever, to myself —that Sister Helen had a 
far higher vocation. Mother Alicia was. 
happy; she often said so, simply and with- 
out affectation, sometimes adding: “ The 
greatest happiness of all is to be at peace 
with God. I should never have known that 
peace in the world, for I am not a heroine; 
Iam conscious of my own weakness, and 
that makes me timid. I cannot trust my- 
self; the cloister is my refuge, and the 
monastic rule my moral hygiene. With 
such powerful aid, I go my way without 
much effort, or any merit on my _ part.” 
When, in talking with her, I brought for- 
ward some of Sister Helen’s arguments, she 
would gently shake her head and say: “ My 
child, if you seeRgyffering, you will find 
plenty without enterit¥a convent. I assure 
you that a mother, merely in bringing her 
children into the world, has far more to 
endure than we ever have. I do not con- 
sider the sacrifice we make in taking the 


164 Convent Life of George Sand. 


veil as anything in comparison with what 
is daily required of a good wife and mother. 
Don’t worry about it, and wait for the in- 
spiration of God when you are old enough 
to choose. He is far wiser than we are, 
and knows what is best for you. If you 
long to suffer, be sure that life will afford 
you a great many opportunities; and per- 
haps if this ardor of self-sacrifice does not 
die out, you may find that it is not in a 
convent, but in the world, that you must 
seek martyrdom.” 

Her wisdom inspired me with respect, 
and I owe it to her that I did not make 
those irrevocable vows which young girls 
sometimes pronounce in secret before God, 
— terrible vows, that entail life-long suffering 
on timorous consciences ; vows that may not 
be broken, mistaken as they are and un- 
acceptable in the sight of God, without a 
serious shock to the dignity and sanity of 
the soul. 

But I was not proof against Sister Helen’s 
enthusiasm. I saw her every day, and 
watched for opportunities to help her in 
her hard work, often giving up my recrea- 
tion in the daytime for this purpose, and at 
night teaching her French in her cell. She 


Convent Life of George Sand. 165 


had, as I have said, very little intelligence, 
and could hardly write at all. I taught her, 
in fact, more English than French, for I 
saw that I must begin that way. Our les- 
sons hardly lasted half an hour, for she 
became tired very soon, having more will 
than intelligence. She never once doubted | 
my “ vocation,” and did her best to encourage 
me, believing in good faith that I was as 
strong as herself. No obstacle embarrassed 
her, and she was sure that it would be easy 
for me to procure a dispensation enabling 
me to enter our convent, in spite of the 
rule that excluded all but English, Scotch, 
or Irish postulants. I acknowledge that 
the thought of being a nun anywhere else 
made me shudder, — a proof of the flimsiness 
of my vocation; but when I confided these 
doubts to Sister Helen, she made light of 
them. It has been said that great souls are 
never exacting to others, never require from 
them such sacrifices as they are willing to 
make themselves; and she who had left her 
family and native land, and had entered 
unquestioning the first convent proposed to 
her, was willing to indulge me in the choice 
of a retreat,— thus lessening the sacrifice. 
For her it was enough, apparently, that a 


166 Convent Life of George Sand. 


girl like me — whom she considered very re- 
markable because I knew my own language 
better than she knew hers — should delrber- 
ately propose to become a lay sister instead 
of a teacher. 

So we built castles in the air together. She 
tried to find a good name for me as a sister. 
In the community Poulette was called Marie 
Augustine, the name I had taken at con- 
firmation ; so it became necessary to choose 
me another. I was to have a cell close 
to Sister Helen’s, and she authorized me 
in advance to devote myself to gardening, - 
and to cultivate flowers in the yard. 

I was very fond of digging, and since I 
was too old to have a little garden of my 
own, I passed part of my time at recess in 
wheeling sods and making paths for the 
younger girls. Of course they worshipped 
me, but I was well laughed at by the older 
pupils. Anna especially sighed over my 
infatuation; but she was as affectionate as 
ever. Pauline de Pontcarré— one of the 
friends of my childhood, who had lately 
come to the convent — told her mother one 
day before me that I had become idiotic; 
that I passed all my time with Sister Helen, 
or with “ babies” seven years old. . 


Convent Life of George Sand. 167 


eV 


H OWEVER, one friendship that I had 

contracted ought to have helped to 
redeem my character, because it was with 
the most intelligent girl in the school, — 
Eliza Austen. Her father, a nephew of the 
Superior, Madame Canning, had married in 
Calcutta a beautiful Hindu, by whom he 
had a great many children, — thirteen or 
fourteen, I believe. The climate had proved 
fatal to all but three, —a boy who became 
a priest; Lavinia, who was with me in the 
lower class; and Eliza, now Superior in an 
Ursuline convent in Cork, Ireland. 

Mr. and Mrs. Austen seeing their chil- 
‘dren perish before their eyes, and unable 
themselves to leave India, confided the three 
that were left to Mrs. Blount, sister of Mr. 
Austen and Madame Canning. They were 
first sent to school in a convent at Cork; 
but when Mrs. Blount decided to take up 
her abode in Paris, they all came together. 
I believe that the father was still away when 


168 Convent Life of George Sand. 


I knew the daughters ; the mother was living, 
and had not seen her children for more 
than twelve years. | 

Eliza had great beauty and a remarkable 
mind. Her profile was purely Greek, and 
her complexion literally like lilies and roses. 
She had superb chestnut hair, and deep 
blue eyes that were soft, but penetrating. 
A singular combination of the two types, — 
English and East Indian, — she was impe- 
rious and fascinating, with the most angelic . 
smile I ever saw. Her low brow, clearly 
cut features, a certain massiveness in her 
superbly proportioned figure, indicated a 
tremendous will, a love of mastery, and 
inordinate pride. From her earliest child- 
hood inclined to devotion, she came to the 
convent determined to be a nun, loving 
but one person, a sister in the Irish con- 
vent she had just left,— Maria Borgia de 
Chantal, who had always encouraged her 
vocation, and whom she rejoined afterwards 
when she took the final vows. The greatest 
proof of friendship that she ever gave me 
was making me a present of a little reliquary 
which I still keep on my mantelpiece. I 
can read even now on the back: “M. de 
Chantal to E., 1816.” She valued it so 


- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 169 


highly that she made me promise never 
to part with it, and I have kept my word. 
It has followed me in all my wanderings. 
However, on a journey the glass got broken 
and the relic dropped out; but the medallion 
remains whole, and the reliquary itself has 
become sacred to me. This beautiful Eliza 
was the first in all her studies, the best 
pianist in the convent, superior to all the 
others in everything; because with her 
natural talent she had will and patience. 
Her object was to be able to teach in the 
convent at Cork, which she loved as I did 
our own; and Maria Borgia was to her 
both Helen and Mother Alicia. More sen- 
sible than I was, she was determined to 
make herself useful in the monastic life. 
Though I now attended to my lessons, 
I made hardly any more progress than I did 
before my conversion. My only object 
being to obey the rules, and my mysticism 
impelling me to eschew all worldly vanity, 
I did not see why a lay sister that was-to- 
be should care to play well on the piano, to 
draw, or to learn history. The result was 
that at the expiration of three years I was 
more ignorant than when I entered the 
convent. I had even lost the intermittent 


~ 


170 Convent Life of George Sand. 


love of study that I had shown as a child. 
Devotion absorbed me in a ditferent way, it 
is true, but just as completely as the idle 
life of my first year. When I had wept pas- 
sionately a whole hour in church, I was good 
for nothing. all the remainder of the day. 
The rapture poured out in the sanctuary 
unfitted me for secular pursuits, and I had 
no enthusiasm, perception, or vigor left, — 
no interest in anything. In fact I was be- 
coming stupid, — Pauline was right when 
she said so. Yet it seems to me now that I 
gained in a certain way; that I was learn- 
ing to love what was not myself, and that 
fanatical devotion has this advantage at all 
events, — if it does make you stupid in some 
respects, on the other hand it sets you free 
from many belittling pre-occupations. 

I do not know how it happened that I 
became intimate with Eliza. While I was~ 
a “diable” she had been cold and severe 
in her manners. She had an overbearing 
temper, sometimes hard to restrain, and 
when a “diable” disturbed her medita- 
tions or meddled with her note-books in 
the schoolroom, she turned scarlet with 
anger; her beautiful cheeks flushed deeply ; 
her eyebrows, never far apart, were con- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 171 


tracted in a nervous frown; she muttered 
indignant words, and her ironical smile 
was terrible, —for her imperious, haughty 
nature was asserting itself. We used to 
say that we could see the Asiatic blood 
mounting to her face. But it was only 
for a moment; her strong will controlled 
the angry impulse, —she grew pale, then 
smiled, and that radiant smile chased away 
the clouds, lighting up her face like sun- 
shine, and bringing back all its sweetness 
and dewy beauty. When she revealed her- 
self to me it was not gradually or partially; 
she candidly confessed her real faults, and 
confided to me unreservedly the torment of 
her austere soul. “ We are going the same 
way by different roads,” she said one day. 
“ T envy you because your path is so smooth ; 
you do not love the world, and flattery dis- 
gusts you. It seems as though you were 
gliding along from the world to the cloister 
without effort and without struggle; for you 
there is no friction. But I,”—and as she 
said this her face shone like that of an arch- 
angel, —“ I am as proud as Lucifer; I stand 
up in the temple like a Pharisee, and I have 
to make a great effort to retreat to the door, 
where I find you asleep and smiling in the 


172 Convent Life of George Sand. 


humble place of the publican. I am fastid- 
ious even in my choice of a religious life. 
I am determined to obey, but I feel an un- 
governable impulse to command; I am fond 
of praise, criticism irritates me, and ridicule 
is exasperating. Naturally, I am neither 
indulgent nor patient. To conquer all these 
tendencies, to keep myself from sinning a 
hundred times a day, I have to make a con- 
stant effort; and if I finally succeed in 
overcoming my evil passions, it will be the 
result of incessant striving on my part, with 
a great deal of heavenly help.” And then 
she would weep and beat her breast. I, 
who felt like a nonentity compared with 
her, tried to console the weeping girl by 
reminding her that the greatest saints were 
those who had had the hardest conflicts. 

“ That is true,” she cried; “ there is glory 
in suffering, and rewards are in proportion 
to our deserts.” Then, covering her lovely 
face with her beautiful hands, she exclaimed, 
“And that too is pride! It enters every 
pore of my body, and takes Protean shapes , 
to conquer me. Why should I long for 
glory at the end of my struggle, and aspire 
to a higher place in heaven than yours 
and Sister Helen’s? I am really very un- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 173 


fortunate not to be able to forget myself a 
single instant.” 

In’ such inward struggles and revolts 
this brilliant girl passed her austerely ra- 
diant youth; but it seemed as if Nature had 
fitted her for the contest, for the more she 
tormented herself the more superb she was 
in health and strength, the more wonderful 
in acquirement. 

With me it was different. Without any 
struggle or storm, I exhausted myself in 
my devout ecstasies. I began to feel ill, 
and soon, bodily suffering affecting my 
state of mind, I entered another phase of 
. this strange life. 


174. Convent Life of George Sand. 


XVI. 


De several happy months the 

days had sped by like hours. I en- 
joyed perfect liberty now that I had no 
wish to abuse my freedom. I spent all 
my time with the nuns,—in the work- 
room, where they invited me to tea; in 
~ the sacristy, where I helped them fold 
and put away the decorations of the 
altar; in the organ-loft, where we _ prac- 
tised hymns ,and choruses; in the novi- 
ces’ room, that served also for music les- 
sons; and finally, in the burial-ground, 
where the pupils were not usually allowed 
to go. This cemetery, between the church 
and the garden-wall of the Scotch convent, 
looked like nothing but a bed of flowers ; 
for there were no tombs, headstones, or 
epitaphs, — only the unevenness of the 
ground showed that there were graves. 
It was a delightful spot, shaded by fine 
trees, and adorned with shrubs and bushes 
as well as flowers. On summer evenings 


Convent Life of George Sand. 175 


the air was redolent of the perfume of roses 
and jessamine; and even in winter, when 
snow had fallen, I have seen tea-roses and 
violets blooming on the borders of that 
spotless shroud. A pretty rustic chapel — 
a sort of open shed, covered with grape- 
vines and honeysuckle — sheltered a statue 
of the Virgin and separated this sacred 
place from the pupils’ garden; while our 
lofty horse-chestnuts, which overhung the 
chapel roof, shaded one corner of the ~ 
cemetery. There I have passed hours of 
delightful revery. Before my conversion - 
I used to steal in sometimes to find the 
nice india-rubber balls that the Scotch 
students had accidentally thrown over the 
wall; but now I cared little for india- 
rubber balls. I loved to dream of a life 
that should be a sort of living death, — of 
an existence intellectually torpid, indiffer- 
ent to all earthly considerations, absorbed 
in contemplation without end; and I used 
to choose my place in this burial-ground, 
and see myself in imagination sleeping in 
the only spot in the whole world where I 
longed to rest in peace. 

Sister Helen encouraged these dreams ; 
but the poor girl was far from happy her- 


176 Convent Life of George Sand. 


seif. She still suffered a great deal, al- 
though she was better physically, and 
_ really seemed convalescent; but I think 
that much of her suffering was mental, 
and that she was scolded often, and even 
persecuted sometimes, for her mysticism. 
Some evenings I found her weeping in 
her cell. I hardly dared question her, and 
indeed it was of no use; for at the first 
word of inquiry she would shake her head 
deprecatingly, as if to say: “ This is not the 
first time, — it is nothing you can help.” 
It is true that immediately afterwards she 
would throw her arms around me, and sob 
as if her heart would break; but not a 
word of complaint, not a murmur, escaped 
from her sealed lips. 

One evening when I was in the gar- 
den, just under the Superior’s window, I 
heard what seemed to be an angry dis- > 
pute. I did not catch the words; but I 
instantly recognized the Superior’s voice, 
harsh and irritated, and Sister Helen’s 
distressed accents, interrupted by sobs. 
Formerly, in our days of intense excite- 
ment about “the victim,” I should have 
stolen up the staircase into the ante- 
chamber to find out exactly what was 


Convent Life of George Sand. 177 


going on; but now I thought it wrong to 
listen to what was not intended for my 
ears, and I walked on as fast as I could. 
But the heart-rending tones of my dear 
Helen kept ringing in my ears. She had 
not seemed to be entreating, but protesting 
with energy, complaining of some false ac- 
cusation. Other voices, which I did not 
recognize, had chimed in reprovingly or in 
accusation; and when I was too far away 
to hear anything distinctly, I fancied that 
inarticulate cries came to me on the breeze, 
mingled with the laughter of the school- 
girls in their playground. This was a 
deathblow to my serenity. What was 
going on in the secrecy of the chapter? 
Were these seemingly gentle nuns_ un- 
justly suspicious and cruel to others? 
What fault could Sister Helen have com- 
mitted, saint that she was? Was I concerned 
in it in any way? Could they reproach her 
with our intimacy? I had distinctly heard . 
the Superior say angrily, “Shame! shame!” 
That she should use such words to a woman 
as simple and pure as a littie child, — that 
she should gratuitously insult an angel, 
— offended me bitterly; and a line from 
Boileau came irresistibly to my lips: “ Can 


12 


178 Convent Life of George Sand. 


there be such hate in the soul of the 
devout ?” 

It is true that Madame Canning was not 
quite a female Tartuffe; she had some 
excellent qualities, but she was harsh and 
deceitful, as I had reason to know. How 
could a person in her position indulge in 
such a torrent of bitter reproach and humil- 
lating threats as the tones of her voice had 
conveyed to.my ears? I asked myself if 
it were possible for a person of common 
perception not to love and admire Sister 
Helen? And then, how could she thus 
reproach and humiliate any one capable of 
inspiring so much esteem and affection, — 
even to do her good, with a view to her 
ultimate salvation? “Can it be a quarrel, 
or is it a trial of her patience?” I asked 
myself. “If it is a quarrel, that is ignoble; 
and to try her patience thus would be odi- 
ously cruel.” All at once I heard cries, 
— possibly the result of my excited im- 
agination; but everything swam before me, 
and a cold sweat bathed my trembling 
limbs. “They are beating, they are abus- 
ing her!” I cried aloud. 

God forgive me for the thought! — it 
may have been wild and unjust; nee I was 


Convent Life of George Sand. 179 


for the moment possessed by the idea. I 
was at the farthest end of the garden, but 
darted like a flash to Sister Helen’s cell; 
and if I had not found her there, I think 
I should have sought her in the Superior’s 
room. But she had just come in, very much ~ 
agitated, and her face was wet with tears. 
My first thought was to look for traces of 
violence, —to see if her veil was torn, or if 
her hands were bleeding; for I had sud- 
denly become as suspicious as those are 
apt to be who pass instantaneously from 
blind confidence to the agony of doubt. 
But there was nothing of the kind; only 
her robe was dusty, as if she had rolled on 
the floor. 

She pushed me away, saying, “It is noth- 
ing, — nothing at all. I am very ill, and — 
must go to bed,— leave me!” 

I went into the corridor, so that she 
might go to bed; but I put my ear close . 
to the door. She groaned so that it made 
my heart ache. As I crouched there, fa- 
vored by the darkness, there was a constant 
flitting past me to the Superior’s room; 
doors were continually opened and shut, 
and rustling robes swept the floor close to 
me. Then all was still. I went back to 


180 Convent Life of George Sand. 


Sister Helen, and said: “I am not going 
to ask you any questions, for I know that 
you will not answer me; but let me stay 
here and take care of you.” 

She said she was feverish; but her hands 
“were icy, and she trembled.all over. She 
complained of thirst; and since there was 
nothing but water in her cell, I insisted 
on going, in spite of all she could say, to 
find Poulette, whose room was in the same 
passage. She was in charge of the in- 
firmary, kept the keys, and gave out all the 
remedies. I told her that Sister Helen was 
very ill. But to my inexpressible astonish- 
ment, good, kind, motherly Poulette only 
shrugged her shoulders and said, — 

“No, she is not very ill; she does not 

need anything.” 
' Shocked at her inhumanity, I left her 
at once, and ran to find my friend Sister 
Theresa, the tall Scotchwoman, the pre- 
siding genius of the mint-still in the cel- 
lar. She also worked in the kitchen, and 
I wanted her to heat some water and make 
a cup of herb tea. But she showed as much 
indifference as Poulette. 

“Oh, Sister Helen!” she said; “she is 
only in low spirits;” but added presently, 


Convent Life of George Sand. 181 


“Well, well! to please you, I will go and get 
some linden-leaves.” And off she went, 
without hurrying in the least, and with a 
very contemptuous expression; and hand- - 
ing me at last the herb tea, with a little 
mint-water, she said: “You had better take 
some too; it is very good for foolishness 
and pain in the stomach.” 

I could get nothing else out of her, and 
went back to my patient, who had lost all 
control of herself, and was now in a violent 
chill. I brought blankets from my own 
bed, and the hot tea warmed her a little. 
It was the hour for prayers, and bed-time ; 
so I went to look for the Countess, who 
refused me nothing now, and asked permis- 
sion to sit up with Sister Helen, who was 
very ill. 

“What!” she said, looking very much 
astonished; “she is ill, and there is nobody 
but you to take care of her?” 

“Yes, madame,” I answered; “will you 
give me permission ?” 

“Certainly, my child; all that you do in 
that way is right in the sight of God.” 

And such was my treatment at the hands 
of this good but ridiculous woman, of whom 
I had made so much fun, but who never 


182 Convent Life of George Sand. 


/ 
cherished any ill will toward me or any 
one else, — unless, perchance, they hap- 
pened to interfere with her parrot Jacquot 
or Mother Alippe’s cat Whisky. 

I stayed late with Sister Helen, and only 
left her when she seemed to be sleeping 
quietly. For several hours, however, she 
had suffered tortures, and I heard her ejacu- 
late as she writhed on her bed; “ Oh, why 
can't I die?” But she did not utter a word 
of complaint or accusation, and the next day 
she was up and about her work as usual, » 
smiling, almost gay; she had the recupera- 
tive power of a child, with the courage and 
resignation of a saint. 

This mysterious occurrence affected me 
more than it did her to all appearance. I 
saw from the manner of the nuns and the 
way I was permitted to see Sister Helen 
at all hours, that I had nothing to do with 
the storm that had burst on her head; yet 
I was shaken not in my faith but in my 
trustful happiness. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 183 


XVII. 


yee this time Mother Alippe died 

of a prevailing lung fever, with which 
the Superior and some of the other nuns 
were dangerously ill at the same time. We 
had never been very intimate; but I was 
always fond of her, and had thoroughly 
appreciated, while I was in the lower class, 
the uprightness and justice for which she 
was remarkable. Her death, after only a 
few days’ illness, was said to be agonizing, 
and the regret for her loss was universal. 
Her sister Poulette, who was in charge, as I 
have said, of the infirmary, and who also 
nursed the Superior and the other nuns, 
fainted away at her post, on the day of her 
sister's funeral. 

There was a poetic sadness about the 
beautiful funeral service; the singing, the 
tears, the flowers, the prayers at the grave, 
the pansies planted immediately on the 
place where she was laid to rest (from 
which we gathered flowers as mementos), 


~< - 


184 Convent Life of George Sand. 


the resigned grief of the sisterhood, all gave 
a stamp of sanctity, and conferred a hidden 
charm on this sudden death, — this separa- 
tion for a time, as good, courageous Poulette 
said in talking to us of her sister. 

But I had been exceedingly disturbed by 
something very hard to understand. On 
leaving our cells that morning we were told 
that Mother Alippe had died in the night ; 
and though we greeted one another sadly, 
and some shed tears, there was no violent 
grief. In fact we had known the night be- 
fore that she could not recover. Respecting 
the sleep of childhood, they had not dis- 
turbed us when she passed away; we had 
heard no bell toll, nor anything of the last 
offices for the dying. We went in to 
prayers. It was a chilly, foggy morning, 
and the daylight fell wan on our bowed 
heads as we knelt in the chapel. All at 
once, in the middle of the “ Hail Mary,” a 
horrible shriek arose from our midst. We 
all started to our feet terrified,— all but 
Eliza, who was lying on the floor, writhing 
in terrible convulsions. 

- By a strong effort of will she recovered 
sufficiently to go to mass; but there was a 
recurrence of the same nervous attack, and 


Convent Life of George Sand. 185 


she was obliged to leave the church. All 
day she seemed more dead than alive, and 
for some time afterwards she would occa- 
sionally cry out during her lessons or medi- 
tations, and look about her with a startled 
expression as if pursued by a spectre. 

At first these attacks were attributed to 
violent grief; but then she was not supposed 
to be more attached to Mother Alippe than 
many of the other girls. When we were 
alone she explained it to me. It seemed 
that only a very thin partition separated her 
room from the infirmary above, in which 
Mother Alippe breathed her last. All 
night long she had heard her dying agony, 
not losing one word or groan, or the final 
struggle and death-rattle. It had excited 
her nervous system so sympathetically that 
she was obliged to make a tremendous 
effort not to reproduce it, especially in tell- 
ing me of this endless night of anguish and 
terror. I did my best to calm her. There 
was a prayer to the Virgin that soothed her 
when she suffered the most, —a little prayer 
in English, given to her by her dear Madame 
Borgia, who had told her never to say it 
alone, carrying out the idea of the primitive 
Christians, who were fond of repeating: 


186 Convent Life of George Sand. 


“Verily I say unto you, where two or three 
are gathered together in my name, there 
will I be in the midst of you.” For want of 
a third sympathetic companion, we two used 
to say it together. Eliza had a prie-dieu 
in her cell, which was furnished like that of 
anun. We lighted a pure white taper, and 
placed before it a bunch of the prettiest 
flowers we could get; Eliza liked these ap- 
purtenances of devotion, and thought they 
charmed away the mental torture she so 
often inflicted upon herself. Even Madame 
Borgia’s prayer, however, produced no last- 
ing effect, and the poor girl acknowledged 
that she had fallen a prey to unreasoning 
and inexplicable terror. The image of 
death had presented itself to her in all its 
grimness. Perhaps her exuberant vitality 
shrank from the idea of physical annihila- 
tion, though she constantly made a free-will 
offering of herself to God, and in many 
respects was of the stuff of which martyrs 
are made. But suffering and death in 
a material form affected her imagination 
powerfully. With a brave soul, she had the 
nerves of a weak woman. She reproached 
herself bitterly for this weakness, but never 
succeeded in surmounting it. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 187 


I do not know why it should have dis- 
pleased me so much, but it was another dis- 
appointment hard to bear that my noble 
Eliza, my ideal of strength and courage, 
should be so overcome by anguish at the 
solemn death of a sinless human being. I 
had no constitutional horror of death myself, 
and the philosophical calmness inculcated 
by my grandmother was heightened by the 
sight of Christian resignation far more im- 
pressive than the firmness of a Stoic. 

For the first time, death now seemed 
dreadful to me from Eliza’s unnatural point 
of view; and though I blamed her in my 
‘heart for not feeling as I did, I could not 
escape the contagion of her terror, and at 
night, traversing the corridor near Mother 
Alippe’s cell, I used to fancy I saw her 
ghost flit before me in white robes, which 
she shook and waved as she walked. I 
could hardly help screaming like’ Eliza; 
and though I had sufficient self-control to ~ 
restrain myself, I was deeply ashamed of 
this idle terror, which seemed almost blas- 
phemous, and became as much provoked 
with myself as with Eliza. 


188 Convent Life of George Sand. 


XVIIL 


1 Boe I tried i in vain to recall my vanish- 

ing illusions; gloom settled down on 
me, and at last one evening in church I 
found that I could not pray, every effort 
I made only intensifying my despondency. 
In fact, I had been really ill for some time, 
suffering from such insupportable spasms 
that I could neither eat nor sleep. A girl 
of fifteen cannot endure with impunity 
~such austerities as those to which I had 
been subjecting myself, in imitation of Eliza, 
who was nineteen, and Sister Helen, who 
was twenty-eight years old. 

My strength had evidently given way 
under my enthusiasm, and for the first time 
since my conversion I suffered from doubt, 
—not about religion, however, but about 
myself. I was persuaded that I had fallen 
from grace, and repeated to myself over and 
over again those terrible words, “ Many are 
called, but few are chosen.” I began to be 
sure that God did not love me any more, 


Convent Life of George Sand. 189 


because I did not love him enough; and I 
fell into a state of dull despair which I con- 
fided to Madame Alicia. She smiled, and 
tried to explain the connection between my 
state of mind and physical causes, begging 
me not to attach such exaggerated impor- 
tance to these impressions. “Every one has 
such times of discouragement,” she said; 
“and the more you torment yourself, the 
worse it will be. Accept this trial in a spirit 
of humility, and pray that it may come toan 
end; but if you have not committed any sin 
of which this dejection is a just punishment, 
have patience, hope and pray.” 

What she said was the outcome of her 
philosophical experience, of her reason and 
good sense; but my weak head could not 
accept it. I had enjoyed ardent devotion 
too much to await its return with patient 
resignation. Madame Alicia had said, “If 
you have committed no sin,” etc. and I 
began to think what I could have done; for 
it was incredible that God should be capri- 
cious and cruel enough to withdraw the light 
of his countenance only to try me. If it were 
something that came from without, it would 
be different. “I should gladly accept mar- 
tyrdom; but if I fall from grace, what can 


| “190 Convent Life of George Sand. « 


I do? God is my strength; if he aban- 
_dons me,isit my fault?” Thus I murmured 
against the object of my adoration, and like 
a jealous, irritated lover, I might have be- 
come reproachful ; but I shrank shuddering 
from this incipient impiety, and beating my 
breast, exclaimed: “ Yes, it is, it must be, my 
fault! I must have committed some crime 
of which my seared conscience has failed to 
warn me.” After a vigorous self-examina- 
tion, it occurred to me that a series of venial 
offences might possibly be equivalent to 
one deadly sin ; and I tried to enumerate the 
sins of omission and commission that un- 
doubtedly I had unconsciously committed,— 
since it is written that the righteous man 
sins seven times a day, and that an humble — 
Christian must believe that he sins seventy 
times seven. 

For a long time Abbé Prémord was de- 
ceived ‘by my self-deception. In my con- 
fessions I accused myself of lukewarmness, 
of backsliding, of wandering and wicked 
thoughts, of indifference in devotion, of idle- 
ness in school and absent-mindedness at 
church, — consequently of disobedience; and 
I said all this without efficacious contrition, 
or any energy to triumph over temptation. 


“Ne 


Convent Life of George Sand. 191 


He scolded me kindly, enjoined perseverance, 
and sent me off, saying cheerily, “Come, 
don’t allow yourself to be discouraged, and . 
you will yet be victorious.” 

At last one day when I had gone on ac- 
cusing myself more vehemently than usual, 
weeping bitterly all the time, he suddenly 
interrupted me in the midst of my confes- 
sion with the abruptness of an honest man 
tired of wasting his time. “Listen to me,” 
he said. “I do not understand you at all. 
I am afraid that you are morbid. Are you 
willing that I should ask the Superior, or 
any one else you may mention, about your 
conduct?” 

“Of what use can that be?” I answered. 
“ All these kind persons, who are fond of 
me, will tell you that there is nothing 
wrong. If I have a hard heart, and have 
gone astray, no one knows anything about 
it but myself; and undeserved praise will 
only make me worse instead of better.” 

“ No, you cannot be a hypocrite,” he pro- 
tested. “Let me make inquiries. I have 
set my heart on doing so. Come back at 
four this afternoon and we will have a talk.” 

I believe that he consulted the Superior 
and Madame Alicia, and when he saw me 


192 Convent Life of George Sand. 


come in he said, smiling: “I knew that 
you were demented, and now I am going | 
to scold you in good earnest. Your con- 
~ duct is irreproachable; these ladies are de- 
lighted with you; you are considered a 
model of gentleness, punctuality, and sin- 
cere piety. But you are ill, and that af- 
fects your imagination. You have become 
gloomy, sad, and fanatical. Your compan- 
ions do not know what to make of you, 
and they complain of the change. Take 
care! if you go on in this way they will 
hate and dread piety, and your example will 
help to prevent instead of inducing con- 
versions. Your relatives are anxious about 
you; your grandmother says that convent 
life is killing you, — that you are becoming 
a fanatic; and her letters plainly show her 
distress. . You know that instead of urging 
you on, we are all trying to calm you. As 
for me, now that I know the truth, I insist 
on your giving up this exaggeration. Your 
sincerity makes it all the more dangerous. 
You must lead a healthy, natural life of 
body and mind; and since there is a subtle 
pride at the bottom of all these scruples, as 
a penance you must take part in the games 
and amusements proper for yourage. This 


Ss 


Convent Life of George Sand. 193 


very evening you must run about in the — 
garden with the other girls, instead of pros- 
trating yourself in the church for recreation. 
You must jump rope and play tag. Your 
appetite and sleep will come back after a 
while; and when you are in-a normal state 
of health, you will not attach such undue 
importance to these pretended faults, of 
which you are proud to accuse yourself.” 

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “ that is a 
harder penance than you imagine. I have 
lost all taste for games, even the habit of 
gayety; but I am so frivolous that if I do 
not keep a constant watch over myself I 
shall forget all about God and the salvation 
of my soul.” 

“Not at all,” said he. “ Besides, if you go 
too far, your conscience, when you are well 
again, will be quick to warn you, and you 
will heed its reproaches. I tell you that 
you are il], and that the feverish aspirations 
of a delirious soul are not agreeable in the 
sight of God. What he wants is reasonable 
service. Go, now, and mind your doctor. 
In a week I shall expect to hear that you 
are entirely different in appearance and 
manners. I want you to be loved and re- 
spected, not only by the good girls, but 
13 


. NTS See ayo) 


194 Convent Life of George Sand. 


even more by those who are not good. Let 
them see that the path of duty is pleasant, 
and that faith is a sanctuary from which 
you come forth with a beaming face and 
kindly ways. Remember that Jesus told 
his disciples to anoint their heads and wash 
their hands. He meant, ‘Do not imitate 
those hypocritical fanatics who put ashes 
~ on their heads, while their hearts are as 
unclean as their faces; but be agreeable to 
men, so as to make them love the religion. 
you profess.’ My child, you must not bury 
your light under the bushel of mistaken 
penitence. - Adorn your heart with courtesy 
and your mind with attractive cheerfulness. 
That is natural at your age, and you must 
not make people think that piety renders 
girls unattractive. God should be loved in 
his servants. Come, declare your contri- 
tion; say you are sorry, and I will give you 
absolution.” 

“ But, Abbe Prémord,” I exclaimed, “ how 
can you want me to amuse myself and 
waste all the evening, when I am going to 
take the communion to-morrow?” 

“ Certainly,” he answered, “since I tell 
you to amuse yourself as a penance, it will 
be accomplishing a duty.” , 


Convent Life of George Sand.- 195 


“T will do just as you say, Abbé, if you ~ 
will only promise me that it will be pleasing 
to God, and that he will give me back the 
sweet, transporting spiritual ecstasy in which 
I felt and returned his love.” 

“IT cannot promise that,” he said, smiling, 
“but I should not wonder, — you will see ;” 
and the good man left me stupefied, con- 
founded, frightened, at what he had told me 
to do. 

I obeyed him, however, considering pas- 
sive obedience a cardinal virtue; and I 
soon found that at the age of fifteen it 
is not very hard to get back a taste for 
jumping rope and playing ball. I joined in 
these sports after a while without reluctance, 
then with pleasure, and at last with some- 
thing of the old zest. Physical activity is 
so natural for the young! and I had been so 
long deprived of it that now it had an added 
charm of novelty. My companions wel- 
comed me back most affectionately; Fa- 
nelly first of all, then Pauline, Anna, and the 
others, — “les diables ” as well as the good 
girls. Seeing me so gay, their first idea 
was that I was going to be wild again, and 
Eliza scolded me alittle; but I told her and 
a few others, who sought and deserved my 





‘aT 


196 Convent Life of George Sand. 


confidence, what Abbé Prémord had said, 
and they all approved of my conduct. 

It happened just as the good confessor 
had predicted, and I quickly regained moral 
and physical health. 

Six months thus flew by like a happy 
dream; and I can think of no greater felicity 
in paradise. Angels seemed to bear me 
up so that I might not hit my foot against 
_astone. I did not pray as much as before, 
because it was forbidden ; but when I prayed, 
all the old ecstasy came back, — though less 
impetuous, perhaps, than formerly. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 197 


XIX, 


NS return to gayety made a_ great 


change among the older girls. 
Since my conversion, “les diables” had 
languished and lost their spirit; but now 
they revived in the most unexpected way, 
and became rosewater “ diables,” — that is 
to say, gay and frolicsome without disre- 
gard of the rules or neglect of their duties. 
They worked in school-hours, and played 
in play-time with more alacrity than they 
had ever shown before. There were no 
more sharply drawn lines between good 
girls, stupid girls, and “diables.” These 
last were less obstreperous, the good girls 
gayer, and the stupid ones acquired readi- 
ness and confidence because they were 
called upon to contribute their share 
toward the general enjoyment. This great 
improvement was mainly brought about by 
a new system of amusement in common. 
Five or six of the older girls began by getting 
up charades, — really little plays arranged 


198 Convent Life of George Sand. 


beforehand in separate scenes, and acted on 
the spur of the moment. Thanks to my 
grandmother, I was more conversant with 
literature than the others, and I had, more- 
over, a certain knack in theatricals; so I | 
came to the front and was made manager. 
I chose actors, assigned parts, ordered 
dresses, and discovered after a while a great 
deal of latent talent among the girls. The 
end of the schoolroom toward the garden 
was our theatre. The first attempts were 
lame enough,—like the historical beginnings 
of our national drama; but the Countess 
allowed us to go on; then she became in- 
terested, and asked Madame Eugénie and 
Madame Francoise to come and see for 
themselves if there was anything objection- 
able in what we were doing, — but these 
ladies laughed and approved.: : 

We made rapid progress, borrowed old 
screens for side scenes, and accessories 
began to shower upon us from all sides. 
The girls procured at home materials for 
their dresses, but the great trouble was to 
get up the costumes for the men’s parts. 
Not to shock the sisters, we chose the 
dress of the time of Louis XIII. Our pet- 
ticoats, gathered below the knee, formed 


Convent Life of George Sand. 199 


trunk-hose; and for doublets we slashed 
the sleeves of our bodices and put them on™ 
hind-part before, turning them back at the 
neck over puckered-up handkerchiefs that 
represented shirt-fronts. Two aprons sewed 
together did duty as mantles; and ribbons, 
rings, and other gewgaws were not hard to 
get. When we needed more feathers, we 
improvised them out of paper cut and curled 
for the purpose. (School-girls are quick 
at contrivance, and know how to turn the 
merest trifles to account.) Then we were 
allowed to wear koots with spurs, rapiers, 
and slouched hats, furnished by our parents ; 
altogether our costumes did very well, and 
we depended on imagination to supply de- 
ficiencies in scenery. After all, it was not 
very hard to accept a table for a bridge, or 
a stool covered with green baize for a bank 
of turf. The younger girls were allowed to 
be present, and at last we enrolled all who 
wished to act. 

One day the Superior, who was very 
fond of amusement, sent us word that she 
had heard a great deal of our theatre, 
and that she wanted to come with the 
whole community and see a performance. 
The Countess and Madame Eugénie had 


200 Convent Life of George Sand. 


already allowed us to sit up till ten, or 
even till eleven, when there was a play. 
For this once the Superior announced 
‘that we need not go to bed before mid- 
night, —as much as to say that she ex- 
pected a fine entertainment. Her request 
and permission were received with delight. 
All the girls surrounded me, saying: 
“Come, author! come, life and soul of the 
company (this was the last name they had 
given me), we must go to work. Let us 
have a superb performance, — six acts, — 
two or three pieces! Only think! we are 
to keep our audience on the guz vzve from 
eight o’clock till midnight!” 

It was a great undertaking to make the 
Superior and the most serious nuns laugh, 
and not a slight responsibility either; for 
the slightest tinge of impropriety might 
shock the sisters, and put a stop to our 
theatricals. On the other hand, if the 
plays proved tiresome, they might close 
the theatre, giving as a reason that it took 
too much time, caused too much excite- 
ment, and interfered with our lessons, — 
which was undoubtedly true, especially for 
the younger pupils. 

Fortunately, I was very well versed in 


Convent Life of George Sand. 201 


Moliére; and leaving out love-passages, I 
thought I could arrange enough scenes 
for an evening entertainment. Of “Le 
Malade Imaginaire” I could make a com- ~ 
plete sketch, though I did not remember 
perfectly the dialogue and scenic arrange- 
ments. Moliére’s works were prohibited in 
the convent; and although I was a manager, 
I virtuously refrained from sending for the 
books, and merely tried to remember the 
story, so as not to be very wide of the mark 
in my libretto. I rehearsed some important 
scenes, and gave all my actors a general 
notion of the main idea of the piece,— 
endeavoring to preserve something of the 
character of the original. Not one of the 
pupils had ever read the play; and since 
the nuns did not probably know a line of 
Moliére, I was sure that it would be a nov- 
elty. I have forgotten who took the differ- 
ent parts, but I remember that they were 
acted with intelligence and gayety. I was_ 
M. Purgon; and partly because I had for- 
gotten, and partly on purpose, I left out a— 
great deal of the coarseness. 

Every year, on the Superior’s. birthday, 
we had been in the habit of acting pieces, 
— not very exciting, I must confess, — gen- 


202 Convent Life of George Sand. 


erally taken from the sentimental plays of 
Madame de Genlis. But the preparations 
on such occasions were much more elabo- 
rate than ours: we had a real theatre, stage 
properties, footlights, thunder and lightning, 
parts committed to memory and admirably 
performed; while now, with my old screens 
and ends of candles, my actors without 
previous preparation, a libretto imperfectly 
remembered, an improvised dialogue, and 
one partial rehearsal, it was to be feared 
that I might make a complete failure. 
But hardly had we begun, —I had only said 
a few words,— when I saw the Superior 
unbend, then laugh; while even Madame 
Eugénie wiped her eyes. It was evidently 
amusing. Our gayety and animation, the 
comic genius of Moliére,—even so diluted 
in scraps of recitation and incomplete frag- 
ments, — brought down the house. Never 
in the memory of nuns had they laughed 
so heartily. 

The success of our first scenes encour- 
aged us. I had prepared a sort of ballet 
interlude, with a comic chase taken from 
“M. de Pourceaugnac,’ — only I had 
charged my actresses to stay behind the 
scenes (that is to say, the screens), and not to 


Convent Life of George Sand. 203 


shoulder their arms until I gave the signal 
and set the example. As I saw the audi- 
ence was so genial, I ventured, and began. 
the interlude by brandishing the classic 
instrument above my head. I was -wel- 
comed by bursts of Homeric laughter; for 
that sort of thing never seems to shock 
devout persons. Immediately my black 
regiment in white aprons rushed after me 
upon the stage; and this burlesque, for 
which Poulette had lent us all the arsenal 
of the infirmary, made our audience laugh 
so that it seemed as if they might literally 
bring down the house. The last thing was 
the ceremony of reception; and as I knew 
all this part by heart, the girls had learned 
some of the verses. The success was com- 
plete, and the enthusiasm immense. 

From repeating the service constantly, 
these ladies knew enough Latin to appre- 
ciate the farce of Moliére. The Superior 
declared that she had never been so diverted 
in her life; and I was overwhelmed with 
compliments for the wit and gayety of my 
inventions. I kept whispering to the girls, 
“It is not I,—it is all Moliére; I have only 
remembered a little.” But no one listened 
to me, and I was not believed. One of 


204 Convent Life of George Sand. 


my friends, who had read Moliére, it 
seemed, in her last vacation, said in my 
ear: — | 

“Keep still! What is the use of telling 
_ these ladies? Perhaps they would close 
our theatre if they knew where you got all 
that. Nothing has shocked them, and there 
is no harm in keeping the secret, so long 
as you are not questioned.” 

In fact, I was credited with Moliére’s 
genius. It troubled me a great deal to 
accept all these compliments, — but I ex- 
amined myself to see if I felt flattered, and 
perceived, on the contrary, that one must 
be crazy to enjoy homage clearly due to 
another; so I let the mistake pass, and con- 
sidered it a penance for the sake of amus- 
ing my companions. The theatre was not 
closed, and continued to attract the Supe- 
rior and the nuns every Sunday. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 205 


XX, 


|e was not always easy to keep so much 

exuberant gayety within bounds, and 
every day it mounted a peg higher. For 
me, as well as for all the other girls, the 
air seemed charged with electricity. For 
instance, though I no longer led the van 
in ridiculing the poor Countess, and some- 
times did my best to prevent the other 
girls from doing so,— when for the hun- 
dredth time, perhaps, she tried to light the 
candle, cut out of an apple, that Pauline 
had put in her lantern, or when she used 
one word for another with the imperturb- 
able absurdity of an absent-minded person, 
and the. whole school shouted with laugh- 
ter, —I-could not refrain from chiming in. 
Then she would look at me with a dis- 
tressed expression, and hitching up her 
great green shawl on her shoulders, ejac- 
ulate like Caesar: — 

“And you too, Aurore!” 


206 Convent Life of George Sand. 


I wanted to be sorry for what I had 
done, but she had a way of pronouncing 
final e like 0; and when Anna, who was 
an excellent mimic, turned toward me and 
said reproachfully, “ Auroro! Auroro!” I 
could not help it,—my laughter became 
spasmodic: I should have laughed “through 
fire and flame,” as they say. 

Our gayety was so rampant at last that 
some of the most excitable girls were all 
ready for open rebellion. At this time — 
during the Restoration — there was an 
epidemic of revolt in convent and _ board- 
ing-schools, for girls as well as boys. When 
we heard of these occurrences, sometimes 
serious and sometimes amusing, the live- 
liest pupils would say: “It is time we had 
our own little rebellion; we shall be out of 
fashion. Why should we not have a notice 
in the newspapers, as well as anybody else?” 
The Countess became nervous, and her 
severity increased with her alarm. Some 
of our good nuns had very long faces, and 
for three or four days (I believe that our 
Scotch neighbors had their insurrection at 
that time) they were evidently in a state of 
tremulous excitement, which amused us very 
much. Then the girls took it into their 


. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 207 


heads to pretend to revolt, just to see if 
they could frighten all these ladies, — espe- 
cially the Countess. They did not take 
me into their confidence, but hoped that 
I should be lured on when they had once 
begun. 

One evening in the schoolroom, as we 
were all seated around a long table, —the 
Countess at one end busy with her mending, 
her back turned to a candle, — I heard the 
girl next me say to her neighbor, “ Lift 
up!” The word was passed round the 
table, which, lifted immediately by thirty 
pairs of little hands, rose higher than the 
top of the Countess’s head. Very absent- 
minded as usual, she turned, surprised at the 
sudden disappearance of her light; but in- 
stantly the table and candles fell back to the 
old level. This trick was repeated several 
times before she understood what we were 
about. I was so much amused that I passed 
on the watchword and “lifted up” with the 
others. The Countess rose from her seat, 
trembling with indignation. It had been 
arranged beforehand that when she did this, 
each girl should put on a reckless and riot- 
ous expression, to frighten her still more. 
We all folded our arms and scowled like 


208 Convent Life of George Sand. 


conspirators, and there were murmurs 
of “ Revolt.” Quite incapable of assert- 
ing herself, sure that the fatal hour had 
come, she turned and fled like a sea-gull 
before the storm,—her old green shawl 
streaming out behind her, —and losing all 
presence of mind, ran across the garden 
to take refuge and barricade herself in her 
own room. As she passed under the win- 
dows, we threw out the footstools and can- 
dlesticks, without any intention of hitting 
her; but the flying missiles, and our cries 
of “ Revolt! revolt!” must have seemed to 
her fiendish. 

For a while we were left to our own 
devices, and we indulged in the wildest 
merriment; but at last, hearing in the dis- 
tance the deep voice of the Superior, we 
knew that the alarm had been given, and 
that she was coming with some of the older 
nuns to quell the tumult. Now it was our 
turn to be frightened ; for we had no quar- 
rel with Madame Canning, and since the 
rebellion was a. mere pretence, we did not 
care to be punished as if we had been in 
earnest. So we hastily bolted the two doors, 
recovered the footstools and candlesticks, 
arranged and relighted our candles; and . 


Convent Life of George Sand. 209 


when order was completely restored, we 
all knelt down and began reciting the 
evening prayer, — all but one, who was 
sent to open the door, at which the Supe- 
rior had knocked in rather a hesitating way. 
In the end, the Countess was mercilessly 
laughed at as a silly visionary; and Maria 
Josepha, a good-natured servant who at- 
tended to the schoolroom, was careful to 
say nothing of the breakage of some arti- 
cles of furniture and the demolishing of 
a few candles. She faithfully kept our 
secret, and this was the end of the revo- 
lution in the convent. 

All was quiet, the Carnival was close at 
hand, and we were getting ready for a finer 
theatrical representation than we had ever 
had before. Some play of Moliére or Reg- 
nard had been chosen for the framework. 
The costumes were prepared, the parts 
distributed, and the violinist engaged, — 
for on that evening we were promised a 
ball and a supper after the play, with the 
privilege of sitting up as late as we liked. 
But a political event, regarded in the 
convent as a public calamity, put a stop 
to everything like gayety for the time 
being. 


210 Convent Life of George Sand. 


The news of the assassination of the - 
Duke de Berry was told us by the nuns the 
morning after the murder, with the most 
sensational comments. Nothing else was 
talked of for a week. All the details of the 
Christian, edifying death of the prince, the 
despair of his young wife,— who was said 
to have cut off her beautiful hair to lay it 
in his tomb, — every circumstance of this 
royal and domestic tragedy, reported, exag- 
gerated, amplified, and poetized by royalist 
newspapers and private correspondence, was 
talked and cried over every day at re- 
cess. Almost all the French girls belonged 
to noble royalist or renegade Bonapartist 
families. The English pupils — of whom 
there were a great many — mourned and 
sympathized on general principles with the 
Legitimists; and to all of us the story of 
such a tragic death and the woe of an il- 
lustrious family became as exciting as a 
tragedy by Corneille or Racine. We did 
not know that the Duke de Berry had 
been a brutal and dissipated man; he was 
described to us as a second Henry IV., 
his wife as a saint, and everything else in 
accordance, 7 


Convent Life of George Sand. 211 


A whole week of grief is a long time for 
convent school-girls. One evening some 
one made a face, another smiled, a third 
perpetrated a joke, and then we all laughed, 
rather nervously at first, after so much 


crying. 


212 Convent Life of George Sand. 


XXI, 


eae gradually we resumed our old 
habits, and the spring wore away. 
My grandmother had come to Paris, not in 
a scolding mood after the good reports she 
had received of my conduct and improve- 
ment, and she acknowledged that my simple, 
natural manners were well suited to a girl 
of sixteen. She treated me with the great- 
est kindness; but after a while she seemed 
troubled. She had been told of my secret 
wish to become a nun; and a year before, 
some friends had written to her to say that I 
looked miserable, and that I was gloomy and 
fanatical. These reports did not disturb 
her much, for she said to herself that such a 
state of mind was too unnatural to last long ; 
but now, when she saw me in excellent 
health and high spirits, putting on no sanc- 
timonious airs, and yet unaffectedly eager 
to get back to the convent as soon as pos- 
sible, she became alarmed, and determined 
that I should return with her to Nohant. 


Convent Life of George Sand. 213 


This announcement fell like a thunder- 
bolt out of a clear sky into my happy life, 
— the most perfect happiness I have ever 
known. The convent was for me an earthly 
paradise. I was neither a pupil nor a nun, 
but something between the two, with abso- 
lute freedom in a place which I never left, 
even for a day, without deep regret. No 
one could have been happier. I was sur- 
rounded by friends, a recognized leader in 
all pleasures, and the idol of the little girls. 
The sisters, seeing me so cheerfully per- 
sistent in my vocation, began to believe in 
it themselves, and forbore all opposition. 
Eliza, the only one who had understood my 
recent gayety, was convinced that I was 
thoroughly in earnest, and Sister Helen 
abated no jot of her enthusiasm. I was 
sure myself of not being mistaken, and re- 
mained so long after leaving the convent. 

Madame Alicia and Abbé Premord were 
the only persons who still doubted, — prob- 
ably because they knew me better than 
any one else. “Entertain this idea, if it 
makes you happy,” each said separately, in 
almost the same words, “ but make no im- 
prudent vows or secret promises to God ; 
above all, do not lisp a word to your rela- 


214 Convent Life of George Sand. 


tives of your determination till you are per- 
fectly certain that it is irrevocable, — till you 
know positively that it isa permanent and 
not a transient longing. Your grandmother 
has set her heart on your marriage. If that 
does not take place, however, in two or three 
years, and you still feel as you do now, we 
can then talk it all over.’ 

The good Abbé had made it very easy 
for me to be amiable. At first I had been 
alarmed at the idea that it would be my. 
bounden duty to use any influence I had 
with my companions to try and convert 
them. 

“ T hope you will do nothing of the kind,” 
he said one day when I told him what 
I dreaded. “ Never be a bore; preaching 
to your companions would be in very bad 
taste at your age. Be pious and cheerful ; 
that is all I ask of you. Your example 
will preach better than any injunctions.” 

My excellent old friend was right to a 
certain extent. It is true that my influ- 
ence was not bad; but religion so gayly in- 
culcated had made the girls very lively, and 
I am not at all sure that it is an infallible 
recipe for turning out good Catholics. I 
myself, howevel: remained a fervent be- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 215 


liever, and should always have been so, I 
think, if I had stayed in the convent; but I 
was obliged to go away, and forced, more- 
over, to hide my grief from my _ grand- 
mother, who would have been deeply dis- 
tressed if she had known what pain it 
caused me to part from all these beloved 
objects. It nearly -broke my heart. But 
when the dreaded moment came, I did not 
shed a single tear. I had had a month 
to prepare for the separation, and I was 
so resolved to submit without a murmur, 
that to my grandmother I seemed calm 
and contented. But my wretchedness was 
great, not only then, but for a long time 
afterwards. 


216 Convent Life of George Sand. 


XXII. 


] MUST not close this account of my 

convent life without recording that I 
left behind me grief and consternation on 
account of the death of Madame Canning. 
Since my conversion I had felt it my duty 
to show her proper respect, but she never 
attracted me; yet I was told that I was one 
of the last persons she mentioned affection- 
ately before she died. 

This powerfully organized woman was 
admirably fitted, in many respects, for the 
position she held in the convent, over which 
she had reigned supreme since the time of 
the Revolution. She left the community 
in a very prosperous condition, with a large 
number of pupils, and with social relations 
that seemed to insure the most desirable 
kind of patronage. However, from the day 
of her death there was a decline of pros- 
perity. Madame Eugénie was immediately 
chosen as her successor, and if I had re- 
mained in the convent I should have been 


Convent Life of George Sand. 217 


more indulged than ever; but she had no 
administrative ability like Madame Can- 
ning’s. I do not know whether it was her 
fault, or that of her coadjutors; but after 
a few years she asked permission to retire, 
and it was gladly granted,—for she had 
either mismanaged, or had been unable to 
prevent mismanagement. 

There is a fashion in everything in this 
world, — even in convent schools. Ours 
had been in vogue under the Empire and 
during the Restoration. The greatest fam- 
ilies in France were represented there, — 
the Mortimers and Montmorencies, for in- 
stance, sending their daughters as pupils. 
Later, the children of those imperial gen- 
erals who had made their peace at the 
Restoration were admitted, — their parents 
hoping, doubtless, that they might form 
aristocratic friendships and alliances. Now, 
however, had come the turn of “la bour- 
geoisie;” and although I heard afterwards 
some of my grandmother’s old friends ac- 
cuse Madame Eugénie of vulgarizing her 
convent, I remember perfectly that when 
I left, shortly after the Superior’s death, 
“le tiers état” was already represented, — 
greatly to the pecuniary advantage of 


218 Convent Life of George Sand. 


the community. In fact, this move was 
considered at the time the crowning glory 
of Madame Canning’s prosperous rule. 

I had seen our ranks rapidly filled up~ 
with a number of charming girls, daugh- 
ters of merchants and manufacturers, — 
quite as well-bred as the scions of noble 
houses; and it was a generally recognized 
fact that some of them were more intelli- 
gent than their aristocratic companions. 

It proved to be, however, a short-lived 
prosperity; the heads of noble families 
thought that the convent was becoming 
plebeian, and took away their children. The 
fashion veered, and the prestige of great 
names now belonged to the “ Sacré Coeur” 
and the “ Abbaye-aux-Bois.” Several of 
my companions were transferred to those 
convents; and little by little the aristocratic 
element was eliminated, — the old retreat 
of the Stuarts deserted by the Legitimists. 
Then, of course, the bourgeois, who had 
flattered themselves that their children 
might become intimate with the daugh- 
ters of the nobility, were chagrined and 
disappointed; or perhaps the Voltairean 
spirit of the reign of Louis Philippe, which 
had been smouldering ever since the begin- 


Convent Life of George Sand. 219 


ning of his predecessor’s rule, rendered con- 
vent education more unpopular. 

However that may be, after a few years 
I found our convent depopulated, — seven 
or eight little girls only, instead of seventy 
or eighty pupils; and the empty house 
seemed given over to silence, instead of the 
constant stir and occasional tumult of old 
times. 

Poulette was still at her post, complain- 
ing loudly of the new Superior, and_be- 
moaning the downfall of their ancient 
grandeur. 

Later, —I think in 1847,—some one 
told me that there were more pupils; but 
after this decadence the convent never re- 
covered its former prestige. 

The change can be accounted for only 
by supposing that it was one of Fashion's 
unjust caprices ; for after all, these English 
nuns were “ wise virgins,” and in the course 
of a quarter of a century they could scarcely 
have lost all that charm which belonged to 
their kind, gentle, reasonable ways. 


THE END. 





‘ 


Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 





FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES. 


GEORGE SAND. 


By BERTHA THOMAS. 


One volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 


“* Miss Thomas has accomplished a difficult task with as much good sense as 
good feeling. She presents the main facts of George Sand’s life, extenuating 
nothing, and setting naught down in malice, but wisely leaving her readers to 
form their own conclusions. Everybody knows that it was not such alife as the 
women of England and America are accustomed to live, and as the worst of men 
are glad to have them live. . . . Whatever may be said against it, its result on 
George Sand was not what it would have been upon an English or American 
woman of genius.”” — Vew York Mail and Express. 


‘This is‘a volume of the ‘Famous Women Series,’ which was begun so well 
with George Eliot and Emily Bronté. The book is a review and critical analysis 
of George Sand’s life and work, by no means_a detailed biography. Amantine 
Lucile Aurore Dupin, the maiden, or Mme. Dudevant, the marred woman, is 
forgotten in the renown of the pseudonym George Sand. 

“ Altogether, George Sand, with all her excesses and defects, is a representative 
woman, one of the names of the nineteenth century. She was great among the 
greatest, the friend and compeer of the finest intellects, and Miss Thomas’s essa: 
will be a useful and agreeable introduction to a-more extended study of her li 
and works.” — Knickerbocker. 


“ The biography of this famous woman, by Miss Thomas, is the only one in 
existence. Those who have awaited it with pleasurable anticipation, but with 
some trepidation as to the treatment of the erratic side of her character, cannot 
fail to be pleased with the skill by which it is done. It is the best production on 
George Sand that has yet been published. The author modestly refers to it as a 
sketch, which it undoubtedly is, but a sketch that gives a just and discriminating 
analysis of George Sand’s life, tastes, occupations, and of the motives and impulses 
which prompted her unconventional actions, that were misunderstood by a narrow 
public. The difficulties encountered by the writer in describing this remarkable 
character are shown in the first line of the opening chapter, which says, ‘In nam- 
ing George Sand we name something more exceptional than even a great genius.’ 
That tells the whole story. Misconstruction, condemnation, and isolation are the 
penalties enforced upon the great leaders in the realm of advanced hone 
the bigoted people A their time. The thinkers soar beyond the common hi 
whose soul-wings are not strong enough to fly aloft to Clearer pepe. 83507 and 
consequently they censure or ridicule what they are powerless to reach. Ge 
Sand, even to a greater extent than her contemporary, George Eliot, was a victim 
to ignorant social prejudices, but even the conservative world was forced to recog- 
nize the matchless genius of these two extraordinary women, each widely different 
in her character and method of thought and writing. . . . She has told much that 
is good which has been untold, and just what will interest the reader, and no more, 
in the same easy, entertaining style that characterizes all of these unpretentious 
biographies.”? — Hartford Times. ; 





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GEORGE SAND IN ENGLISH. 





NANON. 


Translated by ELIZABETH WORMELEY LATIMER. 


It is, I think, one of the prettiest and most carefully constructed of her later 

works, and the best view of the French Revolution from a rural point of view that 
I know. — Translator. 
‘*Nanon” is a pure romance, chaste in style and with a charm of sentiment 
well calculated to appeal to the most thoughtful reader. George Sand has chosen 
the epoch of the French Revolution as the scene of this last theme from her pro- 
lific pen, and she invests the time with all the terrible significance that belongs te ~ 
it.),-L0 the literary world nothing that comes from her pen is unwelcome, the more 
so as in this instance there is not the least trace of that risky freedom of speech 
that too often disfigures the best work of the French school of fiction. Nanon 
will be read with an appreciation of the gifted novelist that is by no means new, 
and her claim to recognition is made stronger and better by this masterly work. 
Her admirers—and they will be sure not to miss Nanon—will feel a debt of 
gratitude to Elizabeth Wormeley Latimer for a translation that preserves so well 
the clear, flowing style and the lofty thoughts of the original ; and the publishers, 
no less than the reading public, ought to consider themselves fortunate in the 
choice of so competent a translator. — The American Hebrew. 


This is among the finest of George Sand’s romances, and one who has not 
made acquaintance with her works would do well to choose it as the introductory 
volume. It belongs in the list of the best works of that remarkable author, and 
contains nothing that is objectionable or at all questionable in its moral tone. The 
scenes are laid among the peasantry of France — simple-hearted, plodding, honest 
peopie, who know little or nothing of the causes which are fomenting to bring 
about the French Revolution. She portrays in clear and forcible language the 
destitute condition of the rural districts, whose people were ignorant, priest-ridden, 
and oppressed; and she shows the wretchedness and misery that these poor people 
were compelled to endure during the progress of the Revolution. The book is one 
of her masterpieces, by reason of the exquisite delineations of character, the keen 
and philosophical thought, the purity of inspiration, and the delicacy and refine- 
ment of style. Throughout the story there is a freshness and vigor which only 
one can feel who has lived at some time in close intimacy with fields and woods, 
and become familiar with the forms, the colors, and the sounds of Nature. The 
book has been translated by Elizabeth Wormeley Latimer, who has performed her 
task admirably. —- Public Opinion. 


Mrs. Latimet has achieved marked success in the translation of this charming ~ 
tale, preserving its purity, its simplicity, and its pastoral beauty. — Christian 
Union. 





One volume, 1r2mo, half Russia, uniform with our edition of ‘* Balzac’”’ 
and ‘‘Sand’’ novels. Price, $1.50. 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Bosron, 


GEORGE SAND IN ENGLISH. 


THE BAGPIPERS® 


Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley. 








Messrs. Roberts Brothers have begun the publication of a series of 
novels by George Sand, translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley, whose 
versions of Balzac’s novels, published by the same enterprising house, have 
won for her so much deserved repute. ‘The first volume is a translation of 
‘ Les Maitres Sonneurs,” under the title “‘ The Bagpipers.”” The other 
stories of the series are: ‘“ Mauprat,’’ “ Antonia,” ‘ Monsieur Sylvestre,” 


“ The Snow Man,” and ‘‘ The Miller of Angibault.” ‘The list includes the © 


best novels of their famous author, and those least reprehensible for their 
moral tone; though, even at her very worst, George Sand is mildness itself 
compared with some who have followed after, beginning where she left off. 
It is too late to cavil at George Sand as a literary artist. Her rank among 
the great writers of fiction is assured and permanent. At her best, she 
towers immeasurably above most of her French contemporaries, and in her 
special quality of art, is only rivalled abroad by George Eliot, widely 
diverging though the two writers may be in their views of life. “The 
. Bagpipers” is a charming book, masterly in its delineation of character, and 
keenly interesting in its philosophy. Grace, delicacy, and refinement of 
style are mingled in it with power, thought, and world-knowledge, and the 
passions are depicted with the hand of a master. The translator has done 


her work with exceptional skill, with perhaps, even closer fidelity to the . 


spirit of her original than she achieved in her Balzac translations. The 
volumes are printed and bound uniform in size and style with “ Balzac’s 
Works,’’ and can scarcely fail to win as large favor as attended the latter. 
— Saturday Evening Gazette. 

It is a spirited story and full of incident, rich in its graphic delineations 
of positive and interesting personality, and having a lofty moral tone. 
The charming narratives of fhe loves of these simple, worthy souls, and 
the sterling manhood and noble womanhood of the principal people in the 
story, are enough to render the book alike popular and useful, — Congre- 
gationalist. 





One volume, 12mo, half Russia, uniform with Bal- 


zac’s Works. Price, $1.50. 


“ROBERTS BROTHERS, Pudlishers, 
BOSTON, MASS. 





GEORGE SAND’S NOVELS. 


> 


The excellence of George Sand, as we understand it, lies in her compre 
hension of the primitive elements of mankind. She has conquered her 
way into the human heart; and whether it is at peace or at war is the same 
to her, for she is mistress of all its moods. No woman before ever painted 
the passions and the emotions with such force and fidelity, and with such 
consummate art. Whatever else she may be, she is always an artist. — 
Putnam's Magazine. 


Roberts Brothers propose to publish a series of translations of George 
Sand’s better novels. We can hardly say that all are worth appearing in 
English ; but it is certain that the “ better ” list will comprise a good many 
‘which are worth translating, and among these is “ Mauprat,”’ — though by 
‘no means the best of them. Written to show the possibility of constancy 
in man, a love inspired before and continuing through marriage, it is itself 
a contradiction to a good many of the popular notions respecting the 
author, — who is generally supposed to be as indifferent to the sanctities 
of the marriage relation as was her celebrated ancestor, Augustus of 
Saxony. . . . The translation is admirable. It is seldom that one reads 
such good English in a work translated from any language. — Old and 
New. 


MAUPRAT. 

ANTONIA. 

MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE. 

THE SNOW MAN. 

THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
THE BAGPIPERS. 

NANON. 


7 volumes, 12mo. Half Russia. Uniform in size and style 
with “ Balzac’s Works.” 


Price, $1.50 per Volume. 


Sold everywhere. Mazled, post-paid, on receipt of the advertised price, 
by the Publishers, 
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Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 





Famous Women cries, 


MADAME DE STAEL. 


BY BELLA DUPEY; 


One Volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 





It is a brilliant subject, and handled in a brilliant as well as an intelligent 
manner. — 7he /ndependent. 

The biography of this remarkable woman is written in a spirit of candor and 
fairness that will at once commend it to the attention of those who are seeking 
the truth. The author is not so much in love with her subject as to lose sight of 
her faults; nor is she so blind to Madame de Staél’s merits as to place confi- 
dence in the many cruel things that have been said of her by her enemies. 
The review of Madame de Staél’s works, which closes this volume, exhibits 
rare critical insight; and the abstract of ‘‘ Corinne” here given will be wel- 
comed by those who have never had the patience to wade through this long 
but celebrated classic, which combines somewhat incongruously the qualities of a 
novel and an Italian guide-book. In answering the question, Why was not Ma- 
dame de Staé] a greater writer? her biographer admirably condenses a great deal 
of'analytical comment into a very brief space. Madame de Staél was undoubtedly 
the most celebrated woman of her time, and this fact is never lost sight of in this 
carefully written record of her life. — Saturday Evening Gazette. 

It treats of one of the most fascinating and remarkable women of history. The 
name of Madame de Staél is invested with every charm that brilliance of intellect, 
romance, and magnetic power to fascinate and compel the admiration of men can 
bestow. Not beautiful herself, she wielded a power which the most beautiful 
women envied her and could not rival. The story of her life should read like a 
novel, and is one of the best in this series of interesting books published by 
Roberts Brothers, Boston. — Chicago Fournal. 

We have Messrs. Roberts Brothers to thank for issuing a series of biographies 
upon which entire dependence may be placed, the volumes in the ‘* Famous Wom- 
en Series’’ being thus far invariably trustworthy and enjoyable. Certainly the 
life of Madame de Staél, which Miss Bella Duffy has just written for it, is as good 
as the best of its predecessors; of each of which, according to our reasoning, the 
same thing might appropriately be said. Miss Duffy has little to tell of her sub- 
ject that has not already been told in longer biographies, it is true; but froma 
great variety of sources she has extracted enough material to make an excellent 
study of the great Frenchwoman in a small space, which has never been done 
before successfully, so far as we know. Considering the size of the book, one 
marvels at the completeness of the picture the author presents, not only of Ma- 
dame de Staél! herself, but of her friends, and of the stirring times in which she 
lived and which so deeply colored her whole life. Miss Duffy, though disposed 
to look at her faults rather leniently, is by no means forgetful of them; she simply 
does her all the justice that the facts in the case warrant, which is perhaps more 
than readers of the longer biographies before referred to expect. At, the end of 
the volume is a chapter devoted to the writings of Madame de Staél, which is so 
admirable a bit of literary criticism that we advise the purchase of the book if only 
for its sake. — The Capital, Washington. 


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Brice, by the publishers, 
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Famous Women Scrices, 


MRS... SLD DONS. 
By NINA H. KENNARD. 


One Volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 








The latest contribution to the ‘* Famous Women Series” gives the life of Mrs. 
Siddons, carefully and appreciatively compiled by Nina H. Kennard. Previous 
lives of Mrs. Siddons have failed to present the many-sided character of the great 
tragic queen, representing her more exclusively in her dramatic capacity. Mrs. 
Kennard presents the main facts in the lives previously written by Campbell and 
Boaden, as well as the portion of the great actress’s history appearing in Percy 
Fitzgerald’s *‘ Lives of the Kembles;” and beyond any other biographer gives the 
more tender and domestic side of her nature, particularly as shown in her hitherto 
unpublished letters. ‘The story of the early dramatic endeavors of the little Sarah 
Kemble proves not the least interesting part of the narrative, and it is with a dis- 
tinct human interest that her varying progress is followed until she gains the sum- 
mit of popular favor and success. The picture of her greatest public triumphs 
receives tender and artistic touches in the view we are given of the idol of brilliant 
and intellectual London sitting down with her husband and father to a frugal 
home supper on retiring from the glare of the footlights. — Commonwealth. 

We think the author shows good judgment in devoting comparatively little 
space to criticism of Mrs. Siddons’s dramatic methods, and giving special at- 
tention to her personal traits and history. Hers was an extremely interesting 
life, remarkable no less for its private virtues than for its public triumphs. Her 
struggle to gain the place her genius deserved was heroic in its persistence and 
dignity. Her relations with the authors, wits, and notables of her day give 
occasion for much entertaining and interesting anecdotical literature. Herself free 
from humor, she was herself often the occasion of fun in others. The stories of 
her tragic manner in private life are many and ludicrous. . . . The book abounds 
in anecdotes, bits of criticism, and pictures of the stage and of society in a very 
interesting transitional period. — Christian Union. 

A fitting addition to this so well and so favorably known series is the life of the 
wonderful actress, Sarah Siddons, by Mrs. Nina Kennard. ‘To most of the pres- 
ent generation the great woman is only a name, though she lived until 1831; but 
the present volume, with its vivid account of her life, its struggles, triumphs, and 
closing years, will give to such a picture that is most lifelike. A particularly 
pleasant feature of the book is the way in which the author quotes so copiously 
from Mrs. Siddons’s correspondence. ‘These extracts from letters written to 
friends, and with no thought of their ever appearing in print, give the most 
spontaneous expressions of feeling on the part of the writer, as well as her own 
account of many events of her life. They furnish, therefore, better data upon 
which to base an opinion of her real personality and character than anything 
else could possibly give. The volume is interesting from beginning to end, 
and one rises from its perusal with the warmest admiration for Sarah Siddons 
because of her great genius, her real goodness, and her true womanliness, shown 
in the relations of daughter, wife, and mother. Modern actresses, amateur or 
professional, with avowed intentions of ‘‘elevating the stage,” should study 
this noble woman’s example; for in this direction she accomplished more, prob- 
ably, than any other one person has ever done, and at greater odds. — VV. £ 
Fournal of Education. 


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price, by the publishers, 


ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications. 





FAMOUS WOMEN SERIES. 


THE COUNTESS OF ALBANY. | 


BY VERNON LEE. 


One volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price $1.00. 
_ 


‘It _is no disparagement to the many excellent previous sketches to say that 
“The Countess of Albany,’ by Vernon Lee, is decidedly the cleverest of the series 
of biographies of ‘ Famous Women,’ published in this country by Roberts Brothers, 
Boston. In the present instance there is a freer subject, a little farther removed 
from contemporary events, and sufficiently out of the way of prejudice to admit of 
a lucid handling. Moreover, there is a trained hand at the work, and a mind 
not only familiar with and in sympathy with the character under discussion, but 
also at home with the ruling forces of the eighteenth century, which were the forces 
that made the Countess of Albany what she was. The biography is really dual, trac- 
ing the life of Alfieri, for twenty-five years the heart cad soul companion of the 
Countess, quite as carefully as it traces that of the fixed subject of the sketch.’’ — 
Philadelphia Times. 

“To be unable altogether to acquiesce in Vernon Lee’s portrait of Louise of 
Stolberg does not militate against our sense of the excellence of her work. Her 
pictures of eighteenth-century Italy are definite and brilliant. They are instinct 
with a quality that is akin to magic.”” — London Academy. 

“Tn the records of famous women preserved in the interesting series which 
has been devoted to such noble characters as Margaret Fuller, Elizabeth Fry, and 
George Eliot, the life of the Countess of Albany holds a unique place. Louise of 
Albany, or Louise R., as she liked to sign herself, possessed a character famed, 
not for domestic virtues, nor even for peculiar wisdom and creative power, but 
rather notorious for an easy-going indifference to conventionality and a worldly 
wisdom and cynicism. Her life, which is a singular exponent of the false ideas 
prevalent upon the subject of love and marriage in the eighteenth century, is told 
by Vernon Lee in a vivid and discriminating manner. The biography is one of 
the most fascinating, if the most sorrowful, es the series.’’ — Boston Fournal. 

“She is the first really historical character who has appeared on the literary 
horizon of this particular series, her predecessors having been limited to purely 
literary women. This brilliant little biography is strongly written. Unlike pre- 
ceding writers — German, French, and English — on the same subject, the author 
does not hastily pass over the details of the Platonic relations that existed between 
the Countess and the celebrated Italian poet ‘ Alfieri.’ In this biography the 
details of that passionate friendship are — with a fidelity to truth, anda knowl- 
edge of its nature, that is based upon the strictest and most conscientious inves- 
tigation, and access to means heretofore unattainable to other biographers. The 
history of this friendship is not only exceedingly interesting, but it presents a 


fascinating psychological study to those who are interested in the metaphysical . 


aspect of human nature. The book is almost as much of a bi phy of ‘ Alfieri’ 
as it is of the wife of the Pretender, who expected to become the Queen of Eng- 


land.” — Hartford Times. : 
——¢——— 


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the price, by the publishers, 
-ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 





/ 


Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications, 





Famous omen Series. 


R Aw tec: |. 


By Mrs. NINA H. KENNARD. 





One Volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
pe eS EA 


“ Rachel, by Nina H. Kennard, is an interesting sketch of the famous 
woman whose passion and genius won for her an almost unrivalled fame as 
an actress. The story of Rachel’s career is of the most brilliant success in 
art and of the most pathetic failure in character. Her faults, many and 
grievous, are overlooked in this volume, and the better aspects of her nature 
and history are recorded.” — Hartford Courant. 

‘‘The book is well planned, has been carefully constructed, and is 
pleasantly written.’? — The Critic. 

‘The life of Mile. Elisa Rachel Félix has never been adequately told, 
and the appearance of her biography in the ‘Famous Women Series’ of 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers will be welcomed. . . . Yet we must be glad the 
book is written, and welcome it to a place among the minor biographies ; 
and because there is nothing else so good, the volume is indispensable to 
library and study.’? — Boston Xvening Traveller. 

‘* Another life of the great actress Rachel has been written. It forms 
part of the ‘Famous Women Series,’ which that firm is now bringing out, 
and which already includes eleven volumes. Mrs. Kennard deals with her 
subject much more amiably than one or two of the other biographers have 
done. She has none of those vindictive feelings which are so obvious in 
Madame B.’s narrative of the great tragedienne. On the contrary, she 
wants to be fair, and she probably is as fair as the materials which came into 
her possession enabled her to be. The endeavor has been made to show us 
Rachel as she really was, by relying to a great extent upon her letters. . . . 
A good many stories that we are familiar with are repeated, and some are 
contradicted. From first to last, however, the sympathy of the author is 
ardent, whether she recounts the misery of Rachel’s childhood, or the splen- 
did altitude to which she climbed when her name echoed through the world 
and the great ones of the earth vied in doing her homage. On this account 
Mrs. Kennard’s book is a welcome addition to the pre-existing biographies 
of one of the greatest actresses the world ever saw.” —WV.Y. Avening _ 
Telegram. 





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